The Consultation
by Snowsie2011
Summary: What finally makes Martin Ellingham declare his love for Louisa at the end of series 5? Set in series 5, episodes 7 and 8. Strong language, graphic medical descriptions and adult themes.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: The story and characters of Doc Martin belong to Buffalo Pictures. This work of fanfiction is for personal amusement only and no infringement of any legal rights is intended.**

**Setting: Series 5 Episode 7-8.**

**Many thanks to robspace54 and jd517 for their kind suggestions and thorough editing. Any errors are solely my own.**

The Consultation

Chapter 1

Dr. Ellingham sits in his consulting room with the door closed, and hopes for a few minutes to review the stack of laboratory reports that sit on his desk. After the word spread, like contagion, that Doc Martin is leaving for London to resume his career as a vascular surgeon, the patient schedule is double and triple booked. He glances at the appointment list and frowns. These people need a dose of common sense, not a doctor. He sighs and pushes the paper aside. More likely, they are coming to gawk at the man who could not, once again, make a go of it with Louisa Glasson.

He looks out the window; his blue eyes reflect the over cast sky typical of the Cornish coast. She chose to leave him, take their son away and raise him here, miles from where he plans to live and work. Anger sweeps through him, replaces the dull ache that had been his unwanted companion for the past week. How could Louisa do this after he made every effort to care for them, ensure their health and well being? What did the bloody woman want from him?

He closes his eyes, imagines James Henry's tiny weight in his arms. This goes a little way towards slowing his racing heart.

Enough of this, Ellingham!

The pathology report of a punch biopsy he took of a suspicious mole from some idiot fisherman who doesn't believe in sun block waits his review. As he writes a note in the patient's record, his aunt Ruth steps into room, softly closes the door behind her.

"Looks like you're busy," she says, makes her way to the well worn chair reserved for patients, and sits on the edge, her expression impassive.

Martin scowls. "But you're going to come in anyway. Are you here as a patient?"

She hesitates. "Yes and no."

Of course not, thought Martin wearily. He sits back and waits, barely able to conceal his impatience.

She takes a deep breath and asks, "Have you changed your mind about Louisa?"

Martin looks away. A few days ago, Ruth came to him and asks about Louisa and the baby's move out of the surgery, back to her rented cottage across the village. 'It is for the best,' he told Ruth; why try to fix something that's broken beyond repair?

That night, he laid in their, no his bed, wished he could reach over and touch her, as he had done so many times while she slept next to him. He stares at the ceiling, spent but unable to sleep. Images of their short time living together flitter by; the baby cradled in her arms, her beautiful smile, soft lips against his cheek. Then the image shifts to Louisa telling him she can't go on, that it's never going to work between them. The ache in his chest became unbearable. Maybe he should have tried harder, but little of what she says or does makes any sense to him. No, trying harder would not make a difference. It hadn't with Edith.

He looked at the empty crib, eyes filled with unshed tears. He desperately wants Louisa in his life, but as night turns to dawn, it became clear he will never make her happy.

Martin blinks; his aunt patiently waits for his answer. "No." He looks away, not trusting what Ruth can see in his eyes.

Ruth shifts uneasily on the hard chair. She saw the same, sad look on young Martin's face after a treasured book or toy was unfairly taken away by his tyrant of a father. She is about to offer a word of comfort but before she can speak, he turns to her, his expression guarded.

"So, as your doctor, what can I do for you?"

She thinks quickly. "I've run out of oral lube."

"You could have telephoned for a repeat prescription." Why was everyone, his aunt included, so intent on wasting his time?

"I assume you would want to see me in person. My symptoms might have changed, my condition deteriorated."

"Has your condition deteriorated?"

"Not in the least."

"I supposed not." Martin quickly writes the prescription and with a sharp flick of his wrist, tears the paper off the pad. Maybe she'll leave now.

But Ruth isn't done.

"So you're going out to London as planned and Louisa will stay here with the child?"

Her concern for Martin is genuine. After all he is, with the exception of her estranged brother, the only family she has left. But she doesn't understand how Martin was so careless as to conceive a child with a woman so poorly suited to him in every way. Louisa is nice enough and a good mother but not Martin's intellectual or social equal. Of course, Martin is difficult at the best of times. Ruth witnessed far too many rows, more often then not the product of Martin's insensitive comments to Louisa. At least, they both have enough sense not to marry. Martin's decision to move to London without her is for the best. He can always make arrangements to see the child on holidays or when his busy work schedule allows.

Martin leans back in his chair, swallows hard and answers "Yes."

"Good," said Ruth. "Your parents stayed together for your sake. No one got out unscathed. We don't want a repeat of that."

Yes, thought Martin, she had to bring up his parents. The pictures Ruth found at the farm brought back childhood memories he didn't know he had or wanted. The dark, musty closet where he had spent countless hours, terrified, after transgressions not deserving of such punishment, returned to haunt his dreams. Later, his mother made it painfully clear that she never loved him, and he learnt his father was both unscrupulous and a womanizer. Ruth is wrong. His parents didn't stay together for his sake but to keep up appearances with their circle of ostentatious friends. He vehemently refused to inform his parents of James Henry's birth, to Louisa's consternation, leading to yet another row.

He shakes his head and sighs. Best not to dwell on such things; but he does wonder if the haemophobia and his difficulties with Louisa lay buried in his abysmal childhood experiences. In the end, he does not want his son raised by unhappy parents, their fractious relationship marked by daily rows, unwittingly hurting the child they love.

"Well, this has been fun," said Martin quietly and hands Ruth her prescription. She stands and walks to the door.

"If you want to discuss it further Martin, you know where to find me."

"Thank you."

Ruth looks at him, surprised. Martin isn't in the habit of thanking anyone for anything. She gives him a half smile, closes the door behind her, leaving him to it.

To be continued…


	2. Chapter 2

The Consultation

Chapter 2

Martin sits up in bed, tired after another restless night. The clock reads five am. He sighs and reaches for the manila envelope on the bedside table, opens it and spreads the contents on his lap. The figures in the expense spreadsheet he gave Louisa before the baby was born seem in order. He starts to slide them back into the envelope, hesitates. The day Louisa agreed to move to London with him, she placed this very envelope on his desk. 'I won't need this," she said and bent over to kiss him gently on the lips. He hadn't kissed her back; they were in his consulting room after all. Later, in the kitchen, he wanted to touch and kiss her but she had been unyielding, cold and distant, so he hadn't.

He sighs, throws off the duvet, and scatters the loose sheets over the empty side of the bed. The cold floor numbs his bare feet as he walks to the window; the morning sky is a medley of oranges, pinks and yellow.

'There won't be sun rises like these in London,' he thinks. His thoughts jump to the appointment he made with the village solicitor for later in the week. Dr. Borrows, the new GP, will sign the lease for the surgery; the rental income will go to Louisa for the care of their son. He has no idea how she'll react to his offer of financial support. With a sick feeling, he remembers the last row they had before she moved out of the surgery.

"Louisa, your mother is late again."

"She should be here any minute now."

"It's the same every morning. I can't be caring for James and seeing patients. Have you given any thought to hiring a proper nanny for him, as we discussed?"

"You told me do it Martin, it wasn't a discussion. Anyhow, we should be grateful for the free childcare. We won't have that in London."

"We won't need childcare in London. You'll be home with him, at least for the first four to five years"

At that point, Louisa had stood still, her eyes bore into his. "You don't imagine that I plan on being a kept woman?" she said derisively.

Her comment shocked him. He was happy to provide for both her and the baby and felt a certain satisfaction in being able to do so. His income as a GP and soon vascular surgeon is generous, his needs minimal. And he wants his son loved and cared for by his mother, not some incompetent child minder. He knows that neither he nor Louisa had been properly cared for as children. Why repeat the mistakes of their neglectful parents? He wanted to tell her this, but the moment passed before he could.

He places his hands on the cold window pane; hands able to perform the delicate task of grafting two arteries together to make a heart whole again. If he can do that, why can't he find a way to tell Louisa how he feels? He shivers and rubs his bare arms. It doesn't matter now. Louisa made it abundantly clear she doesn't want him in her life. Slowly, he makes a tidy pile of the papers strewn about the bed, places them on the night table, and heads to the washroom to get dressed.

Ruth is woken by the sound of bleating sheep outside her bed room window. Damn, not again. She hastily pulls on her skirt and blouse and runs out to the farm yard, Wellies squishing through the muck. The sheep are grazing contently in the vegetable patch but startle as Ruth waves at them, shooing them up the hill. She sees a gap in the fence a few yards from the gate. Al mended it yesterday but the little buggers had been busy tearing it apart overnight. That's going to need replacing, and soon. She sighs. Joan couldn't keep up the place, especially at the end. Ruth is dismayed at how derelict the farm has become and the large debts Joan accumulated in the last years of her life.

A wave of grief catches her unaware. Bits of Joan are everywhere; her favorite cup on the pantry shelf, the smell of her soap, her coat hanging by the door. They saw each other only at Christmas and over summer holidays but, regardless, had a strong bond born of shared experiences. Joan was different from her siblings, a free spirit, not interested in academics or the intellectual sparing that was the currency in the Ellingham household. She eloped at age 17 with Phil Norton, a Portwenn farmers' son, to her parents embarrassment. They were aided and abetted by their eccentric Uncle Dick Ellingham, who bought the land that Ruth stands on with money of dubious provenance and happily exiled himself from the Ellingham clan, who preferred London to the back waters of Cornwall. Joan and Phil lived and farmed here, a help to Uncle Dick in his declining years. He left the farm to Joan and her brother Christopher but not to Ruth. She smiles at the memory of her young self, fresh out of psychiatric training, telling her ornery Uncle Dick that he suffered from schizotypal personality disorder and that she can help him. He had promptly disinherited her.

Martin came to the farm over summer holidays, and Joan took him under her wing, loved him as her own. Ruth watched from her perch in London, happy to let Joan play mother to their beleaguered nephew, never having been comfortable around children. She remembers the last conversation she had with Joan, on the telephone, a few weeks before she died. She had gone on and on about Martin and the school teacher, a topic that Ruth found tiresome.

"I'm really worried about Marty"

"You always worry about Martin, Joan. What has he done now?"

He's running away, that's what he's doing. That baby is to be born any day now and he's leaving Louisa to cope on her own. I try to talk sense into him but he won't listen."

"Is Louisa the school teacher?" asks Ruth, disinterested.

"Have you listened to anything I've said for the last three months?"

"He's a grown man, Joan. If he doesn't want the woman and child in his life, there is absolutely nothing you can say or do to make him change his mind. Stay out of it. You know how he is. He won't thank you for interfering."

"Well, I'm obviously the only family who cares enough to interfere, as you call it."

They hung up, Joan irritated, Ruth thoughtful. She wasn't surprised by Martin's decision to leave the pregnant school teacher. His father's philandering, Joan's affair with the sailor, and her own lack of meaningful relationships, had set a poor example for their nephew. Not easy for the girl, she imagined, but she would have to cope.

At the funeral, Ruth watched Louisa stand next to her nephew, one hand in his, other arm cradling their infant son. She felt an uncharacteristic tug of familial duty. Maybe it's time for her to take an interest in Martin, now that Joan is gone. She visits the surgery, asks how he feels about London, Louisa, and the child; he's invariably non committal. But little does he know that his grief for Joan and the pain of losing Louisa reside in his eyes, there for anyone who cares to see. It will be good for him to get away from Portwenn although she wonders if he is ready to resume performing surgery. She asked him about the haemophobia, he tells her it's under control. In her experience, deep seated phobias don't go away; they can be kept in check but tend to rear their ugly heads at the most importune moment.

She feels a soft tap on her leg. Joan's terrier, Buddy, looks up at her, his expression quizzical. "Hello there," she says, and bends down to pat his head. At first, she hadn't cared for the little dog, but his good natured tenacity at getting into her good graces had won the day. Curiously, Buddy has taken a liking to Martin, who despises dogs. Ruth smiles down at the subject of her nephew's ire, and says "Come on. Let's get you some breakfast." Ruth closes the gate and walks down the hill, Buddy at her heels. Now this is all hers, she thinks ruefully, surveys the chicken coop with its pealing paint, leaky farm house roof, and the vegetable patch decimated by the errant sheep.

Buddy starts to bark as Al comes up the driveway on his scooter. It's a good thing she hired him as farm manger; being a city dweller she doesn't know the front from the back end of a chicken. And she has come to like Al; he's good company and plays an excellent game of chess. Ruth waves to him as she walks towards the farm house, looking forward to a nice cup of tea. But first, she reaches into the sideboard drawer and takes out an envelope filled with the eight hundred pounds she withdrew from her savings account yesterday. Ruth hesitates for a moment, wonders if it's wise to hand all this money to Al. But she doesn't see any other way to purchase the fencing material. The locals won't accept checks or credit from an outsider and she is definitely an outsider.

Ruth steps outside and hears a grind and sputter coming from the tractor parked in the driveway. Al sits in the driver's seat and throws up his hands in defeat. He looks at Ruth, his expression furrowed.

She walks up and asks, "Have you flooded the carburetor? I have no idea what it means but it's what people tell me when my car fails to start."

"You really need to think about getting this tractor repaired and the bowzer can't hold its water."

Ruth frowns. "Should I call the vet?"

"No, the water bowzer." He points to the plastic tank strapped to the back of the tractor. Al says he can repair the bowzer but the tractor will need to be replaced sooner then later.

"I don't image they come cheap."

"Maybe two or three grand second hand."

"Let's deal with one thing at a time. For the fencing in the top field, you needed eight hundred pounds."

She hands him the envelope. He watches her walk away, thoughtful.

The afternoon light filters through the surgery kitchen skylight as Morwenna waits for the kettle to boil. She hears Doc Martin at the reception desk, rattling about with the computer and rolls her eyes. 'He's checking up on me again,' she thinks and pours a generous dollop of milk in her tea. No wonder Louisa left him. Who would want to spend the rest of their lives with that annoying old tosser? She hears the front door open, picks up her cup and quickly makes her way to the reception. No need to get him riled up; he hates checking in patients. She sees Mrs. Dingley limp into the waiting room and hears the Doc snap, "See the receptionist!" He stalks back to the consulting room and leaves her with the crazy cat lady of Portwenn. Thanks Doc.

"I want to see the doctor. Come about my knee." She sits on the edge of Morwenna's desk, pulls up her trouser leg and overturns a cup filled with pens. Morwenna scoops them up and unceremoniously tells Mrs. Dingley to go sit down; she'll see what she can do. After a few minutes, Mrs. Dingley is brusquely ushered in the consulting room by Dr Ellingham and told to sit on the examining coach.

"It's my knee. I think it's getting worse." Martin had looked at it after she fell at Large's restaurant yesterday and instructed her to ice and rest it.

He examines her knee, feels a small effusion below the patella, but nothing else. Obviously, she had not followed his instructions. Instead, she likely was busy pestering people for donations for that blasted cattery she runs. 'Filthy animal's cats,' he thinks; they carry disease, fleas and smell bad. He will not let James Henry have a pet. Well, he might consider a fish.

He walks to his desk, sits and starts to write. "This is prescription for an anti inflammatory medication. Take it as directed and rest your leg for a few days."

"I can't do that. Who's going to feed my cats?"

"Get someone to help you"

"There's no money for that. I can barely feed them as it is."

Martin snarls. "Fine. If cats are more important then your health, then don't come complaining to me when your leg gets worse."

The elderly Mrs. Dingley gingerly gets off the examination coach and hobbles over to Martin. She leans over his shoulder and her spectacles slip off the bridge of her nose and fall on the desk. Martin startles, picks up them up and notices they are held together by tape.

"You wouldn't fall so much if you had new spectacles."

She starts to speak but Martin is not listening. Aunt Joan was the same age as this woman, just as obstinate, and struggled with money at the end of her life. Sadness settles in his chest, his eyes burn. He rips the prescription from the pad and yells for Morwenna to escort the patient out of his consulting room.

To be continued…..


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: The story and characters of Doc Martin belong to Buffalo Pictures. This work of fan fiction is for personal amusement only and no infringement of any legal rights is intended.**

**The Consultation **

**Chapter 3**

Martin stands on the shore and watches the surf crash against the break wall as a dinghy makes it way towards the harbor. The manager of the Portwenn life boat called and told Morwenna to get Doc Martin down to the Platt immediately; a fisherman is being brought in after falling from the pilot house and seriously injuring his leg. He grabbed his medical case and hurried down the hill; the villagers watched him go by and wondered who needed the attentions of their competent but rude GP.

The dinghy nears the beach. Martin sees a man lying down with his head propped up by life vests, his face twisted with pain. Another man, dressed in a yellow slicker, steers the dinghy to shore. Martin sees him lean over to speak to the prone man, but his words are muted by the sound of the engine and crashing surf. Ben, the life boat helmsman, pulls the dinghy to shore by the lead rope as the crew gingerly takes the fisherman out, and lays him on the damp sand.

Martin crouches down by the patient's side. His left thigh lies at an unnatural angel, and is covered by several layers of blood soaked rags. Blood pours down the man's leg and forms a dark puddle on the sand. Martin feels his pulse; rapid and thready. He looks at the patient's leg again; there shouldn't be this much blood.

He leans over and asks "Mr." he looks up. The helmsman says "Doorly."

"Mr. Doorly, do you take any medications?" The patient writhes in pain and mutters something unintelligible.

The fisherman in the yellow slicker yells out. "Doc, you give him those blood thinner tablets. You know, for his heart."

Martin looks closely at the patients face. Damn. The man suffers from atrial fibrillation, an irregular heart rhythm and takes a daily dose of warfarin to prevent blood clots. He opens his medical case and takes out a vial of vitamin K, swiftly draws it up, and injects it into the patient's abdomen. This should hopefully help slow the bleeding.

Martin looks up and at Ben as he takes out an intravenous set up. "Can you check on the ambulances' ETA?" He nods and takes out his mobile. Martin cuts through the sleeve of the fisherman's shirt, palpates the antecubital vein and inserts a large bore intravenous canula and connects a bag of Hartmann's solution, clamp wide open. It's a drop in the bucket, considering how much blood the patient's lost, he thinks, but better then nothing. He gives the bag to one of the life boat crew. "Hold this up as high as possible."

"Five minutes, Doc," said Ben. Martin nods and takes out another syringe, fills it with morphine and injects into the IV. As the patient quiets down, he pulls on a pair of gloves and turns his attention to the bloody wound on the man's thigh. He's about to remove the heavily soiled cloth when he feels the all too familiar queasiness. His heart starts to pound and beads of cold sweat form under his arms and drip from his forehead.

"Are you okay, Doc?" asks Ben, his brow furrowed.

Martin ignores him. He takes a few deep breaths and removes the soiled rags from the man's leg.

The wound is worse than he anticipated. The jagged edge of the broken femur protrudes through the torn vessels and tissue. Blood continues to pool in the gaping wound and drip onto the sand. The smell of flesh and blood assails him. He closes his eyes and takes another deep breath.

"Doc, I can help," said Ben, now kneeling next to Martin, hands at the ready.

"No." He's going to do this on his own. Martin takes a bottle of saline and disinfectant and pours them on an ABD pad and places it over the open wound.

The patient yells out from pain. "I have to put pressure on your injury to help stop the bleeding," said Martin firmly as he places more pads and pressure on the wound, hoping to stanch the flow of blood.

They hear the ambulance siren in the distance. It pulls up on the Platt and two paramedics jump out, defibrillator and medical supplies in hand. Martin gives them report as he continues to put pressure on the wound. The nausea has passed but he's still sweating and his heart wants to bound out of his chest.

"Radio in that the trauma team should be ready to receive the patient when you get to hospital," barks Martin.

"Already done, Doc, "says one of the medics as she carefully secures the patient on the gurney. The other medic rolls his eyes; the man is a tosser, always telling them how to do their job. As the patient is being wheeled into the ambulance, Martin hears a scream. He turns and sees a woman hurrying towards them. "What happened?" She looks at the semi conscious man on the gurney and bursts into tears.

"Are you Mrs. Doorly?" asks Martin.

"What? Yes, I'm Mark's wife," she sobs.

"I'm Doctor Ellingham. Your husband sustained an open fracture of the femur. He's going to require surgery as soon as he gets to hospital." Martin looks at her grief stricken face. "You should go with him." Another woman arrives, places her arm around the fisherman's wife and helps her into the waiting ambulance.

Martin and the life boat crew watch the ambulance make its way up the hill and out of the village towards Truro. He turns away and looks at the aftermath of the emergency; bits of paper, gauze and tubing litters the beach along with clusters of villagers attracted by the gore and gossip.

He starts to walk and notices his trousers are wet with sea water and blood. His gut churns. He breathes in, and forces the content of his stomach down. This isn't supposed to be happening, not after hours of desensitizing therapy and his imminent move to Imperial.

"We'll clean up, Doc," says Ben, coming to stand next to Martin and gestures to the life boat crew milling about the Platt. Martin nods. "Yes. Thanks." He picks up his case and walks quickly towards the slip way.

Ben watches him go. Morweena told him all about Doc Martin's blood thing and how he doesn't have it anymore. Could have fooled him; the man almost spewed all over the poor bleeding sod on the Platt.

He places the last piece of rubbish in the bag and bins it on the way to the pub to meet his mates for a pint. With a jolt of anticipation, he hopes that Morweena will be there. His sister introduced them after he took the job on the Gavern, a fishing boat out of Portwenn harbor. He likes her quirky ways and nice smile. The last time he saw her, they had a really nice snog at the pub; it would have lasted longer if her granddad hadn't shown up. He smiles. There's always next time.

To be continued….. 

Glossary

Vitamin K- Antagonist to warfarin or Coumadin (US). Can be given intravenously or subcutaneously.

Hartmann's solution- Used for fluid resuscitation in trauma and large surface burns. Similar to Ringers-Lactate solution found in US.

ABD Pads- Large, thick, absorbent pads used in surgery and trauma. Also called abdominal pads.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: The story and characters of Doc Martin belong to Buffalo Pictures. This work of fan fiction is for personal amusement only and no infringement of any legal rights is intended.**

**The Consultation **

**Chapter 4**

Ruth leaves the green grocer and spots an ambulance driving away from the village. There are people clustered about the beach and Platt, talking in hushed tone. It appears there's been an accident and it's likely Martin was called away from the surgery. That's unfortunate; she wanted a word with her nephew. She heads towards her car and is almost bowled over by Martin striding up the slipway, his usually impeccable suit rumpled and stained.

"Hello Martin. I see you've been busy," said Ruth, her piercing blue eyes taking in the state of his attire and the weariness etched on his face.

"Yes. There was an emergency."

"You have blood on your shirt. " She points to his right cuff; he looks down and just as quickly looks away.

Ruth notices his unease. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," he replies curtly. He really isn't, but he doesn't want to talk about it. Not here, not now.

"And what are you doing here?" he asks, in the hope of deflecting further questions.

"I was going to drop off my shopping and walk to the surgery to see you."

"What did you what to see me about?" He peers at her. "Are you feeling unwell?"

"I'm fine. The drops you prescribed have done wonders for my dry eyes."

"Good." He looks at her impatiently. "I really have to get on, Aunt Ruth. Louisa is expecting me to pick up the baby at five and I still have patients to see."

"Actually, it's Al" She pauses. "I'm worried about him. He's been listless, shows up late for work and now he has a rash."

Martin frowns. Al came to the surgery that morning, complaining of an itchy rash to his chest and back. Definitively hives, but as is often the case with this type of allergic reaction, the cause wasn't obvious. Al did say he was under a lot of stress, something to do with his father, but he hadn't elaborated and Martin hadn't asked.

"I can't discuss my patients."

"Yes, of course." She looks away and sighs. "He's been doing a good job helping me manage the farm. I'd hate to see that change."

"Most of the villagers are unreliable. Don't be surprised if he lies to you or doesn't show up for work one day," he says bluntly.

"That's a little harsh, Martin."

"But true," he retorts. Martin thinks of Louisa's mother, who showed up late or not at all to mind James. And then there is the matter of the alcohol in the baby bottle. He shudders.

They are interrupted by PC Penhale coming towards them at a fast trot. "Doc! Doc!" he yells. "Dispatch radioed me about the accident. Unfortunately, I was on important business in Bude and missed all the action." Well, he had gone to Bude to check on Maggie but the Doc didn't need to know that.

Joe comes to a stop near Martin and looks him over "You look a proper mess. Must have been a good one!" he said, almost regretfully.

Martin's patience for the ineffective police constable is minimal on a good day. He mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like "idiot" and marches up the hill towards the surgery.

As Ruth and Joe watch him walk away they hear barking coming from the behind the Crab and Lobster. "Dogs! I've had complaints of them getting into the rubbish bins." He runs off, leaving a bemused Ruth standing on the slip way.

She walks to her car, gets in and places her bags on the passenger seat. As she starts the engine, she sees Bert talking with an older man in a motorized wheel chair. A younger man, his back turned to her, stands next to the older man. She shifts in the car seat to get a better look. Bert looks scared. Odd, she thinks.

Her thoughts turn to Al and his curious behavior. She has come to like Al. He's very much like Ruth was at that age; somewhat introverted but smart with a maturity beyond his years. She decides it's time to get at the bottom of what's bothering him. She steers the Volvo through the narrow Portwenn streets and out of the village towards the moor and the farm.

XXXX

Martin walks into the surgery, and expects a full reception of irate patients annoyed at having to wait to see him. He looks around; the room is empty except for Morweena.

"Hello Doc. I rescheduled your last patients of the day. Thought you might want a clean up before getting the baby."

"Yes. Thanks," he says, suddenly grateful for her thoughtfulness.

He walks to the consulting room and drops his case by the door. There will be time later to restock it. "Any messages?"

"Mr. Sutter wants a refill of Tramadol for his back and Mrs. O'Neil says little Betsy still has a bad cough."

"No to the Tramadol and ask the child's mother to bring her to see me tomorrow. " He drops a packet of patient notes on Morweena's desk.

"Mr. Sutter won't be happy about the pain pills, Doc."

"Tell him to make an appointment," he retorts and starts up the stairs.

"Wait, there's another message. A Mr. Dawson called from Imperial College. He said you're to call him as soon as possible."

Martin hesitates, one foot halfway up the riser. "Did he say anything else?"

"Nope. Just to call him. I'll leave his number on your desk." She gives him a lopsided smile. "Can I go now?"

"Yes," he replies quietly, his brow furrowed.

Martin continues up the stairs to the bedroom and starts undressing. Dawson is the acting chief of vascular surgery and probably wants to go over the final transition details before Martin takes over in two weeks. He removes his shirt and is about to put it in the basket reserved for soiled laundry when he sees the blood stains, stark and accusing, against the white fabric. He drops the shirt, sits on the edge the bed and presses his hands against his temples.

It hasn't gone well today. He had been able to control his raising panic at the sight of the patient's bloody injury, but just barely. Then he remembers the kitchen worker with the severed finger at the hotel in Exeter. There was blood everywhere but he had prevailed, emergently treated the injury without a second thought. What's different now? He's fatigued from not sleeping well and his daily routine has been usurped by the demands of caring for an infant. Louisa hadn't made it easy either, berated him on a daily basis for things he said or did that somehow offended her. And then she left him, leaving behind a thundering silence that turned out to be more of a distraction then the crying baby and their daily rows ever had been.

He feels panic, but of a different sort. What if he can't perform surgery? How is he going to explain his failure to Imperial, to Louisa? He shouldn't care what Louisa thinks, but he does, very much so.

Martin gets up, removes his trousers and angrily throws them in the laundry along with his ruined shirt. I'm done with this, he thinks. It's time for this inconvenient problem to go away once and for all. He plans to redouble his efforts with the CD's and desensitization therapy as soon as possible. Maybe he should consider face to face therapy with a psychiatrist but dismisses the idea. There's no time, and the idea of prattling on to a complete stranger about his problem has no appeal to him.

Before collecting the baby from Louisa's cottage, he'll stop at the butcher to purchase a sheep's liver or two. He turns on the shower, gets under the soothing hot water, and feels a little better.

XXX

Morweena locks the front door to the surgery and quickly runs down the steps, in a hurry to meet her best mate Alison at the Crab and Lobster. Just maybe, she thinks, Ben Tulley would be there as well. Her feet slows and as she remembers how lovely if felt to be kissed by the rugged, brown eyed helmsman. Her reverie is interrupted by PC Penhale, chasing a motley pack of madly barking dogs up the hill. She giggles at the incongruous picture they made and continues on her way to the pub.

Too be continued…..


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: The story and characters of Doc Martin belong to Buffalo Pictures. This work of fan fiction is for personal amusement only and no infringement of any legal rights is intended.**

**The Consultation**

**Chapter 5**

The late afternoon light casts long shadows on the whitewashed walls of the Mr. Rutledge's cottage. Louisa sits at the kitchen table, grading year four spelling tests. She frowns at a list of poorly spelt words, circles them with a red pen and makes a mental note to speak with the child's parents on Monday. She stretches and glances at the clock over the cooker. Almost four fifteen. Her friend, Caroline Bosman, called and invited Louisa to join her for an evening out in Truro this Friday. It would be good for her, Caroline insisted, and she doesn't want the two tickets for a wine tasting and dinner at the hottest restaurant in town to go to waste. Eleanor wasn't available to mind James Henry, so Louisa asked Martin. To her surprise, he appeared keen to take the baby for an overnight at the surgery. He should be here within the hour to collect the baby, who's napping upstairs after a busy day with his grandmother.

She gathers up her student's marked exams and leaves them in a pile on the table top next to the half empty tea cup and plate of biscuits. Louisa reaches for another biscuits, but on second thought, pulls her hand away. Martin admonished her to eat a healthier diet, and as irritating as his comments were, she'd lost almost all of the baby weight. Maybe she could wear the dark blue Boden silk dress this evening, the one she bought on a retail therapy outing with Holly after her non wedding to Martin.

Louisa goes up the stairs, avoiding the creaky treads, to the bedroom she shares with James. She walks to the cot, leans over to touch his forehead and marvels that this little miracle is hers to love and nurture. She lightly kisses his chubby cheek, flushed with sleep and quietly starts to pack nappies, baby grows and his favorite toys and books in the baby bag. James senses his mother's presence, opens his blue eyes, and looks at her blurred silhouette through the rails of the cot. He starts to whimper and kick his legs, ready to escalate his demands for her attention with a full fledge cry. Mother takes him in her soft, sweet smelling arms and he's immediately comforted and stops crying.

"Is it time for a feed?" She sits in the rocking chair next to the bed and unfastens her blouse and bra. The baby latches on hungrily and snorts sweetly between gulps. "You're my little piglet, aren't you?" She slips her finger in his little fisted hand, leans back in the chair and closes her eyes. It's been a long week and she is tired. Still, she looks forward to a few hours of grown up conversation. A glass of wine should help blunt the anxiety she feels at leaving James Henry overnight for the first time.

Stroking James back, Louisa wonders who her mother snared to be her date tonight. She sighs. Her relationship with Eleanor is complicated. When Louisa was barely eleven years old, Eleanor picked up and left her life in Portwenn for the sunny climes of Spain. There had been letters and small presents, but they were never enough to lessen the loneliness and hurt cased by Eleanor's absence in young Louisa's life. With time, Louisa's loneliness grew into resentment and anger. Now, Eleanor appears to want to make amends for neglecting her daughter over all those years. Since Eleanor's return to Portwenn, they've shared some nice moments together, but Louisa is still weary of her mother's motives. Regardless, it's convenient to have Eleanor care for James Henry while she's at work. And she'd listened to and comforted Louisa after her tenuous relationship with Martin fell apart.

There's a sharp knock at the cottage door. It's probably Martin, but the baby is still feeding and she doesn't want to interrupt him.

"Louisa?" calls out Martin. He steps into the cottage and remembers the plastic carrier bag in his hand. He steps out again and drops it behind the rubbish bin by the door and makes his way up the stairs. There's no need for Louisa to know about his visit to the butcher.

"Up here, Martin." He reaches the top tread and sees she is nursing and looks away.

"Martin, come and sit. Please," she says, gesturing to the bed. He gingerly sits, unable to avert his gaze from Louisa and James Henry.

"I heard about poor Marc Doorly. Do you think he'll be alright?" Louisa asks with concern. She taught their son, a bright and athletic child now studying at a prep school on scholarship outside of London

I'm sure everyone's heard, thinks Martin bitterly, thanks to the well watered tendrils of the village grapevine. At least, his problem with the blood seemed to have escaped the gossip mongers notice. "His injury is very serious. It depends how well he does post operatively." "I'll call on his wife this weekend." Martin nods and continues to watch mother and child. They sit companionably for few moments. "He seems to be feeding well," says Martin.

"That he is," replies Louisa softly. She smiles at Martin, and his chest tightens. She's so beautiful and he wants to hold her. Instead he sits quietly, hands at his side.

He takes deep breath. "Louisa, the vicar called. He wants to know the names of the godparents. For James Henry's christening?"

"I thought we agreed to ask Chris Parsons and Roger Fenn ." The baby squirms and she places him against her shoulder. "We could have my mother to be the third godparent, I suppose."

No, that wouldn't do. He nervously clears his throat. "Do you think that's wise, Louisa? Your mother isn't very reliable or responsible."

"Martin, my mother loves James! She may not be perfect, but she would do her best by him."

He looks at her skeptically. "I'm not so sure. Need I remind you of the alcohol in the baby bottle?"

"She didn't mean to do that!"

"Be sensible Louisa. How could she not know about the alcohol in that foul herbal brew she drinks everyday?"

Louisa has misgivings about her mother as well. But she isn't going to admit this to Martin, who's irritating her by being his obstinate and opinionated self.

"I assume you have someone in mind, Martin?" she asks evenly.

"Well, I believe my Aunt Ruth would make an excellent godmother to James."

"And you've both discussed this without consulting me." Her green eyes flash with anger.

He raises his voice. "I did ask Ruth if she would consider being James Henry's godmother, yes."

Louisa stands and hands the baby to Martin. "You can't keep doing this, going behind my back and making decisions that affect me and the baby without discussing it with me first." Her voice shakes with anger.

She grabs the baby bag, storms past him and runs down the stairs. This alarms James and he starts to cry.

Martin holds the baby close to his chest and follows Louisa. He stands at the bottom of the stairs and gives her an exasperated look. "We have to stop this, Louisa. Let's try to be civil, if only for his sake."

Louisa drops the bag and takes the crying baby from Martin, her anger replaced with remorse. James quiets down at his mothers touch.

She looks at Martin. "I'll think about it, Martin. I mean, about Ruth being his godmother."

"Good." He pauses and says quietly, "I don't mean to upset you, Louisa."

She's surprised by this. He rarely talks about his feelings, especially when to it comes to her. "I know, Martin. But it's always been this way. You upset me, I upset you." She wishes he would say something else, but he remains silent.

Martin looks on as Louisa puts James in his coat, kisses his chubby cheeks and secures him in the buggy. "You'll take good care of him, won't you? He's never spent the night away from me."

"Louisa, I am perfectly capable of caring for him," his tone is sharper then he intended it to be. He places the baby bag under the buggy. "When do you plan to collect him tomorrow? My consultations start at 10."

"How about nine o'clock? Then I'll take him for a walk and errands in the village."

"Fine. I'll see you then." He starts to push the buggy towards the door but stops. " Uh, have a nice time tonight."

"Thanks." She gives him a strained smile.

Louisa opens the cottage door and steps outside to help pull the buggy through the door way. She sees something move from the corner of her eye and turns her head to see a large tawny dog tearing into a plastic carrier bag.

"Martin!" she shrieks. He pushes past the buggy just as the dog runs up the hill, a glistening liver clamped between his jaws. Another dog darts out from behind a bush and grabs the other liver from the torn bag and runs in the opposite direction.

"Isn't that Joan's dog?" exclaims Louisa. But Martin doesn't hear; he's halfway down the hill chasing after Buddy. He stops, realizing he can't keep up with the quick and agile little terrier. This village is overrun with the damn flea ridden, unhygienic beasts, he thinks. He'll tell Penhale to round up the strays and the villagers to keep the creatures inside or tied up. That also goes for Aunts Ruth filthy thief of dog. Martin turns and angrily walks up to a giggling Louisa.

"I'm sorry Martin. Was that your dinner?"

"It's nothing." He pulls the buggy onto the path, but first makes sure there are no dogs around. Then he collects the torn carrier bag and deposits it in the rubbish bin and wipes his hands with a handkerchief.

"Good night Louisa." He hastily pushes the buggy down the hill. Her laughter at the dog's antics is replaced by an intense sadness as she watches the father of her child walk away.

XXXX

Ruth listens to the noise of Al's scooter fading in the distance. After some cajoling, Al explained how he used the fence money for the upper field to pay off the loan sharks his father borrowed money from to keep the restaurant afloat. He's taken advantage of her trust, and she's angry.

Her lap top and books lay scattered over the kitchen table. There is no way she can concentrate on writing now. Before she knows it, one of Joan's coats is off the hook and slung over her shoulder. She steps outside, breathes in the cool sea air and strides down to the cliff path. Her anger lessens with each step she takes on the heath. She's disappointed in Al, expected him to be better than this. Ruth believes she is a good judge of character; maybe she's slipping in her old age.

She stops at few feet from the edge of the cliff. The sea is the color of slate and the crashing waves break against the boulders lining the shore. Although his actions are reprehensible, she can't fault Al for wanting to help his incompetent father. She'll wait and see what Al chooses to do, and hopes it's the right thing for his and her sake.

The wind kicks up. She turns her back to the sea, and starts towards the farmhouse. In the distance she sees Martin's car pull into the driveway. Ruth walks faster. It's unusual for Martin to visit without calling first.

She's a little out of breath after her brisk walk. Martin stands next to the car his expression stormy and he's holding James in his arms. Buddy sits quietly a few yards away.

"That thing," he points angrily at the dog before Ruth can say anything, "is a problem. It's getting in the rubbish bins and stealing food. And I found it skulking around the surgery again. I've told you to keep it under control."

"And what would you like me to do, Martin?" asks Ruth calmly.

"I don't know! Tie it up, put it in a cage. Send it to the pound."

His tirade is interrupted by the ringing of his mobile.

"Ellingham," he answers curtly.

He listens quietly for a few moments. "What's her temperature?" He nods. "Yes, I'll be there as soon as I can."

He rings off and sighs. All he wants is to go home, have dinner and spend time with his son. That will have to wait.

"I have an elderly patient who may have pneumonia. She lives a few miles up the road. Can I leave James with you while I see her? It shouldn't take too long."

Ruth is amused to see her nephew almost ingratiating himself. "Where's Louisa?"

"She's on her way to Truro to meet a friend for dinner."

"Right then." Ruth reaches and takes James in her arms. "Does he come with accessories?" Martin looks at her blankly. "Nappies, bottles, baby things?"

"Hum, yes." Martin opens the rear car door and takes out the car seat and the baby bag. "I'll run these inside." He's back in less then a minute. "He was fed an hour ago and I changed his nappy before being rudely interrupted by that thing." He points to Buddy, who still sits quietly, a distance away from Martin. "Keep it away from the baby."

"See you soon," said Ruth, shifting the unaccustomed weight of the baby to her other arm. Buddy comes to sit next to Ruth and they all watch Martin leave.

"Come along, Buddy. You can keep James entertained while I make my dinner."

Buddy doesn't want dinner. His belly is nicely filled with the liver he shared with his pack mates back in the village.

To be continued…

**Author's Note**

Christenings in the Church of England traditionally requires three godparents; two of same sex of the child and one of the opposite sex.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: The story and characters of Doc Martin belong to Buffalo Pictures. This work of fan fiction is for personal amusement only and no infringement of any legal rights is intended.**

**Thank you to Robspace54 for the thoughtful suggestions and thorough editing. All errors are my own. **

**The Consultation**

**Chapter 6**

Martin pulls up to the well maintained farm house and out buildings owned by the elderly Delen and John Butler. She was diagnosed with lung cancer six months ago and had done relatively well, until the cancer spread to her spine and brain. Now, according to the visiting nurse who called Martin, the patient is feverish, and her breathing is fast and labored. He sighs and takes his medical case from the back seat of the car. The front door opens before he is close enough to knock and Mr. Butler, looking ten years older then he did a week ago, greets Martin with a shake of his head.

"Delen's not good, Dr. Ellingham."

"Yes, so I've been told." Martin walks through and up the stairs to the second floor landing. He's been there before and recalls the patient's room is to the right at the end of the hallway. Martin senses her husband is behind him and turns around.

"I will speak with you after I examine her," he said, not unkindly.

"Thanks, Doctor. I'll put the kettle on, then." He silent disappears down the stairs into the late afternoon shadows cast by the landing window.

Martin quickly walks into the sick room, and hears the ominous shallow rattle of lungs strained by disease. He takes his stethoscope out of the medical case and sits on the straight back chair by the bed.

"Mrs. Butler, its Doctor Ellingham." She opens her eyes at the sound of his voice. "I'm going to listen to your chest." She nods and stares at the ceiling, every crevice and bump an oddly familiar sight. Two weeks ago, she walked up the stairs with a load of laundry and collapsed from the pain stabbing her chest with every breath. John carried and laid her on the bed in the guest room. He insisted on shifting the bed so she could see the moor, rolling gently to the edge of the cliff in a patchwork of grey stone and heather green, from the window. As a young girl, she would run from tor to tor, climbing the uneven stones to the very top, the wind rushing and swirling around her small frame, doing its best to push her off like some demented god. She had held fast and felt victorious and invincible. Not now, she thinks, not ever again.

Martin listens carefully to the patient's lungs and heart. It's as he suspected; left lower lobe pneumonia superimposed on a pleural effusion caused by the cancer.

Delen's soft green eyes gaze intensely at Martin. "It's not good, is it, Doctor Ellingham?" She knows the end is near and feels relieved. This is no way to live and by now, she just wants the hard part to be over. It won't be for John, though, and she worries. He calls Delen his little flower, her name is Cornish for petal, but she's always been the strong one, had faith the farm would do well when John felt it was hopeless to continue on.

"No. Ideally you should go to hospital." She shakes her head. Martin didn't think she would. When he diagnosed the cancer, she had made it clear there were to be no hospitals or further chemotherapy once the disease spread through her body.

"Right. I can give you antibiotics for the pneumonia, and medication to help dry the fluid in your lungs." She nods and looks out the window at the gathering darkness.

Martin draws up a vial of penicillin and an ampoule each of morphine and scopolamine. "This is going to sting." He injects the antibiotic, and she winces. "Sorry," he said softly.

He's about to inject the two other medications in her arm when Delen asks haltingly, "You will talk to John?" Each word saps the little strength she has left.

"Yes." There's nothing he hates more then talking to the patient's family. That's how it all started and ended, he thinks bitterly. The memory of the elderly woman and her distraught son, clinging to each other in the pre-operative area followed by the humiliation of his first panic attack in the operating theater flashes, unbidden, through his mind.

Delen takes his hand. "Thank you."

He holds her hand for a moment then injects the morphine and scopolamine into her arm. Her breathing eases and she falls asleep. Martin writes orders for the hospice nurse and makes his way down to the kitchen to find Mr. Butler.

"Doctor Ellingham. Some tea?" he gestures to the pot and cups on the well scrubbed kitchen table.

"No." Martin hesitates. "I think you know your wife is not doing well."

John takes a deep breath and looks searchingly at Martin. "How long does she have?"

Martin remembered how harsh and abrupt he had been to Phil Pratt when Helen Pratt died, so he resists issuing a medical lecture to the man about the mortality and morbidity of lung cancer. "It's hard to tell. Possibly a few days, a week at most," he said instead.

John's world shatters under the weight of Martin's words. He sits down heavily. "We've been married for fifty five years. I fell in love with Delen first time I laid eyes on her." He looks at Martin; his eyes glistened with unshed tears. "How will I live without her?"

Martin shifts uncomfortably on his feet. "Is there anyone I can call for you?"

"No. My daughter is on her way from Wadebridge."

"I'll stop in tomorrow. Goodnight," says Martin then leaves the cottage quietly.

He gets in the car and sits, staring vacantly at the moor stretching endlessly beyond the outline of the farmhouse. As a doctor, he's no stranger to death. Patients die, families grieve, but as a surgeon in hospital he dealt cursorily with the formalities and delegated everything else to the registrar and nurses. Now there's nothing between him and the rawness of everyday doctoring in a small village.

The emotional scene in the farmhouse sits heavily on his chest. He wonders, would anyone remember or even mourn him after he's gone? His efforts at resurrecting his surgical career may very well lie in tatters on the beach after his reaction to the fisherman's blood earlier today. And he longs for Louisa, but she doesn't appear to want him in her life other then to share in the parenting tasks of their infant son. Then, in a moment of clarity, he knows for certain that he loves and will always love his child. Possibly, this is will be his legacy, what he will be remembered for.

Martin starts the car and slowly drives over the rutted track to the main road and the farm house, where James and his aunt Ruth await him.

**To be continued…..**


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: The story and characters of Doc Martin belong to Buffalo Pictures. This work of fan fiction is for personal amusement only and no infringement of any legal rights is intended**.

**Thank you to Robspace54 for the thoughtful suggestions and thorough editing. All errors are my own.**

The Consultation 

Chapter 7

Louisa watched the taxi which carried her from Portwenn to Truro drive away and almost calls out for it to stop, to take her back home. Don't be ridiculous, she tells herself sternly and quickly walks into restaurant. She looks around for Caroline, but can't see her. The hostess takes her coat and Louisa nervously runs her hands over the skirt of the blue silk dress- it had ended up fitting her nicely after all- when she feels rather than sees the furtive glances of two men standing by the bar. She stands up a little straighter, pleased by the attention, and then almost starts laughing as she imagines their reaction once they found out she lives with her mother and is the single mum of a three month old infant.

"Louisa!" she hears. She turns and is embraced by Caroline, looking well, her face lit up with a smile.

"Have you been waiting long?"

"No, no, just got here," and almost scarpered off, Louisa thinks ruefully.

Caroline turns to the hostess, "I reserved a table for two."

"Of course Mrs. Bosman," said the hostess, "This way please."

They are seated at a table overlooking the inner courtyard. Dusk is falling over the bare limbs of a lone oak tree on which rooks are noisily flocking for the night.

"I'm impressed. How did you manage to pull this off? The placed is jammed," said Louisa, looking around.

"Working as a radio host comes with certain privileges," Caroline replies, smugly.

Caroline readily accepted the radio host gig in Truro, happy to get out of Portwenn after she was dodged by rumors of a drinking problem that almost destroyed her marriage. It hadn't made a difference to the gossip mongers when Dr. Ellingham finally diagnosed her with diabetic ketoacidosis, a condition marked by excessive glucose in the blood that can make a person appear intoxicated, when in fact they are dangerously close to death. Caroline is grateful to Martin for saving her life, but still finds it difficult to like him. In addition to being a rude and uncooperative guest on her radio show, he was the cause of many tearful phone calls from Louisa.

The waiter, a lithe young woman with short blond hair, hands them each a menu. "Can I bring you something to drink?"

"I'll have a glass of Pinot Grigio. Caroline?"

"Sparkling water for me, please." She grimaces, "Wine plays havoc with my blood sugars."

They both watch the young woman walk away. "That use to be us, young and carefree," Louisa said, with some envy.

"Speak for yourself!" Caroline laughs and says kindly, "The baby is a big change, isn't it?"

"Well, there's definitely a lot less of this," Louisa waves her hand around, "and lots more midnight feeds and nappy changes."

The waitress brings their drinks and they order dinner; filet of beef on wilted greens for Louisa and grilled salmon and asparagus for Caroline.

Louisa takes a sip of wine and asks, "How's life in the big city?"

"You can't exactly call this the big city but it's an improvement on Portwenn. I work with broadcasting pros and get to meet all kinds of interesting people."

They talk about the politicians and the occasional actor Caroline's interviewed, Cornwall being a popular filming location, and the recent holiday she and her husband Tom took to Italy. Louisa fills her in on James Henry's latest milestones and the Portwenn gossip.

Their meals arrive and Louisa realizes she's hungry. The baby is going through a growth spurt and feeding more often, which makes her want to eat anything that's not tied down.

Caroline asks, "And how is the Large's restaurant doing?" she's surprised it hasn't gone under considering Bert doesn't have the faintest idea how to manage anything, let alone a restaurant.

Louisa replies between mouthfuls, "The restaurant is a bit of a struggle for both of them. Al hired himself out to Ruth Ellingham's for the extra income"

Caroline puts down her fork and asks curiously, "I saw Ruth at Joan's funeral but didn't have a chance to talk with her. What is she like?"

"Well," said Louisa slowly, "She's rather gruff and opinionated." she pauses, "Honestly, I don't think she likes me. I get feeling she thinks I'm not good enough for Martin."

"She's an Ellingham," scoffs Caroline. "That lot has always felt they're better than everyone else in the village."

"Well Martin isn't like that, well not all of the time…" she trails off, and wonders, angrily, why she's defending him. She looks out the window, and feels the hot pin pricks of tears behind her eyes.

Caroline sees Louisa's distress and feels contrite. She reaches across the table and takes her hand. "I'm sorry. Look, it's still early. Let's finish eating and go for a walk."

Louisa nods and smiles weakly. "Yes, I'd like that."

XXXX

They leave the restaurant and walk pass the stately grey stoned Georgian buildings flanking the busy through fare leading to the Truro Cathedral.

"Sorry about that. One glass of wine and I'm a soppy mess," said Louisa lightly.

Caroline takes her arm and says quietly, "I'm worried about you."

"Oh, I'm fine. You know me, I can manage." She hears herself say the words by rote, the same words she's told Martin, her mother and everyone else in the village.

"Are you sure Louisa? It won't be easy, taking care of an infant on your own once Martin leaves for London."

"My mother is helping me."

Caroline sighs, and recalls how devastated Louisa had been when Eleanor moved to Spain shortly after her daughter's eleventh birthday. It had surprised her greatly, when Louisa allowed Eleanor to mind James Henry and then, of all things, live with her in that impossibly small cottage. "How long is that going to last? You know how unreliable she is."

Louisa frowned. "What am I supposed to do? I need someone to mind James while I'm at work. And with Martin leaving for London in two weeks…." She shakes her head.

"Are you sure things are over between you and Martin? I know he's difficult, but maybe there's a way the two of you can work things out."

Louisa worried her decision to leave Martin, turning it over and over in her mind, until the painful edges had softened and blurred into a dull ache. A part of her still hopes that Martin could change and be the partner she needs him to be, but a little persistent voice tells her this is wishful thinking, he won't change. She thinks of the disagreements and rows they've had and knows she can't live with a man who needs to dictate how she lives her life. He'd pushed her to stop working even before the baby was born, asked her to give up her hard won career and financial independence. And all this from a man who can't even say he loves her, she thinks angrily. Well, he'd said it once, before passing out drunk across the kitchen table. It just wasn't enough.

The wind picks up and Louisa shivers. She jams her hands into her coat pocket and answers heavily, "No, I don't think we can work things out." She takes a deep breath. "A year ago, we decided not to marry because we couldn't make each other happy. Well, what was true then is true now."

They come upon the cathedral, and sit on a bench across its lighted façade, timeless and solid, unlike her life, which appears to be crumbling around her. She closes her eyes and wants Martin to reach out and stop her from falling into the chasm, like the dream she once had, and tell her that everything will be fine. And she so yearns to hear him say he loves her.

She's known from the start how hard it is for him to share his feelings, but she thought living together, with the baby, and as a family would change him, soften him, but it hadn't. She cringes at the harsh words they'd thrown at each other and feels sorrow at the cold bed they shared, night after night, never touching or embracing.

"Louisa," Caroline says gently, "Do you love him?"

She wants to scream that she doesn't, never have and never will. Instead, she looks up at the spires of the cathedral and sobs quietly, "I do. God help me, I do."

To be continued…


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: The story and characters of Doc Martin belong to Buffalo Pictures. This work of fan fiction is for personal amusement only and no infringement of any legal rights is intended.**

**Thank you to my beta, Robspace54, for the thoughtful suggestions and thorough editing. All errors are my own.**

The Consultation

Chapter 8

"What is the matter now, young man?" said Ruth, as she picks up James. He had been content for the first half hour after Martin left to attend a patient, entertained by his new surroundings. Buddy had acted as a child minder, rewarded by giggles every time he pawed the baby's feet. Ruth had even been able to prepare the chicken and vegetables now roasting in the oven for her dinner. But then, James had become bored or wet or hungry, she couldn't tell which, and started whinging. She'd picked him up, tentatively felt the outside of his nappy and, with her limited experience in divining nappy contents by feel alone, decided it was best to investigate further. She had successfully changed James, thankful he was only wet, and applied the nappy cream as she has seen Martin do. She was rather pleased with herself, but then James had started to cry the minute she placed him back in the carrier.

She shoos Buddy off the rocking chair and settles down with the baby on her lap. It is strange, but at the same time soothing to hold this little person in her arms. James looks at her face, and she smiles; he looks very much like Martin at that age.

The sweep of car headlights shines through the window. "Ah, here's your father."

Martin knocks lightly on the kitchen door and enters. He goes directly to the sink and washes his hands before taking James from Ruth. "How is he?" he asked, nuzzling the baby's soft and fuzzy head.

"He seems fine, now that you're here." She gets up and goes to check on dinner. "How was the house call? I assume you went to see Delen Butler."

"Aunt Ruth, you know I don't discuss…"

She cuts him off. "Martin, everyone in the village knows how sick she is." She closes the oven door. "Did you know that Delen, Joan and I were childhood playmates?" He shakes his head. "We stayed mostly out of trouble." She smiles and continues, "But Uncle Dick had a shed, in the back pasture that was strictly off limits. Well, Christopher dared us to break in and see what the fuss was all about." Martin grimaces at his father's name. "We did, of course, and Christopher made sure Uncle Dick was on hand for our escapade. We were made to muck the sheep pens for the remainder of the summer."

"And what was in the shed?" asks Martin.

"A still. He was keeping the locals supplied with illegal whisky, for a fee of course. "

Martin frowns. "The villagers seem to have a fondness for illicit chemistry experiments, but Great-Uncle Dick? " He thinks of the creepy basement chemist and the couple who, in an attempt to save money, made biofuel and gave themselves methanol poisoning in the process. Although, he realizes, if it hadn't been for those two idiots he would have missed his son's birth. He looks at James, and his eyes soften. We all make mistakes, Louisa had yelled at him in the pub as she went into labor, and he had almost made the worst mistake of his life.

"There is enough chicken if you want to stay for dinner," said Ruth.

"Yes, thank you," he replies, suddenly famished. James starts to cry in earnest, and Martin rummages through the baby bag for a bottle. He asks warily, "Did you run it over?"

"What, the chicken? No. Al dispatched it this morning." She almost tells him about the Al appropriating the fence money to pay off the loan sharks, but decides against it. There's no point in getting Martin riled up.

Martin walks to the rocking chair, sweeps the dog hair off the cushion and sits down. "I hope you've kept that dog away from the baby," he says as James hungrily takes the bottle, and rests his small hand on his father's cheek.

Ruth is struck by how peaceful Martin looks, slowly rocking his child back and forth. She wonders how he will manage without James, when he moves to London in a few weeks.

"You're nothing like him, you know," she said quietly.

"Who do you mean?" he replies, puzzled.

"Your father. You're nothing like him." She smiles and places plates and cutlery on the table.

He smiles weakly and nods, pleased by his aunt's words.

XXXXXX

The next day brings rain, and Martin's mood matches the weather. James cried most of the night and Martin figured it was teething pain after feeling a telltale bump on the baby's gum. He gave James Calpol and, after multiple attempts at settling him in his cot, gave up and laid the baby in bed next to him. "Best not to tell Mummy about this," he murmured to James. Martin found it was nice to have James nestled in bed next to him, but he had stayed awake, worried he might roll on the baby in his sleep.

Louisa had come to the surgery to collect James at the appointed time. Martin asked about her dinner with Caroline; it was fine, she answered tersely and quietly packed up James and left. He shrugged, once again baffled by her behavior, and made himself a second cup of espresso. He was about to go to his consulting room when Morwenna stumbles into the kitchen, stifling a yawn.

"Morning Doc." She fills the kettle and plugs it in.

"Don't let me keep you up," he said sarcastically.

"Out late last night," said Morwenna, rubbing her eyes. The life boat crew had thrown a birthday party for their helmsman, Ben Tulley, at the Crab and she had stayed until the end, hoping he would walk her home. He had, and she smiles at the recollection of the lingering kiss he'd given her. "Oh, Doc? Mrs. Tishell is in reception. She walks to talk to you."

"What does she want?" asks Martin sharply. The women had become an annoyance, showing up at the surgery without an appointment or cornering him as he went about his business in the village, asking him for tea or some other nonsense.

"She wouldn't tell me. Actually got her knickers in a knot when I asked her," said Morwenna stifling another yawn and drops a tea bag in her mug.

He sighs, takes his cup and walks down the hall into the reception. The village chemist has her back to him, reading the notices about flu vaccine clinics, lost dogs and child minding services on the bulletin board. She hears Martin, turns and walks up to him. He immediately sees there's something different about the way she looks and behaves, but can't quite figure it out. He takes a few steps back and makes a mental note to look through her medical record later that day.

He says curtly, "Mrs. Tishell. What do you want? I'm very busy this morning."

"Of course, Doctor," she simpered, "but I thought you might need these straight away." She hands him a bag of medical supplies.

"There's no need for you to bring these to the surgery." He makes another mental note to send Morwenna for the surgery supplies from now on.

"It's no trouble at all, Doctor." She smiles sweetly. "Should we meet for tea? Or dinner? I can cook, if you want."

"No." He abruptly takes the bag from her, walks into the consulting room and slams the door shut.

She looks at him walk away. Her eyes narrow and she murmurs. "I'm not done with you yet, Doctor Ellingham."

Morwenna walks into reception. "What was that, Mrs. Tishell?"

"It's nothing." Sally gives the closed consulting room door a last determined look and leaves the surgery.

She's gotten weird, that one, thinks Morwenna. But she put that thought from her head as the first patient of the day arrives and the telephone rings. Morwenna puts down her cup and answers in her sing song voice, "Portwenn surgery." She starts to wave the patient to a seat, stops midway, and shrikes in the hand set, "What!" she listens and says " No, I'll get him right way."

She hangs up and yells, "Doc, you've got to get down to the Platt now!"

XXXXX

Ben is sorting equipment at the life boat station, grateful that the fishing boat _Gaverne_ will stay in port today due to the foul weather. His head is pounding and stomach queasy from too much drink the night before. It had been a good party; his mates made sure he welcomed his twenty second year of life with raucous good cheer.

Maybe he'd feel better if he got something to eat. He goes outside and the cold wind blowing from the sea makes him shiver. Ben looks at the _Gaverne_, moored in the harbor, as it rolls and tosses in the heavy surf coming in through the seawalls. Lately, he had thoughtfully watched the weathered old guys on the boat, who are aching from years of hauling fish. Men get injured, like Mark Doorly, or even killed out there.

He wants a better life for himself, and maybe a wife and kids one day. He thinks of Morwenna's warm eyes and soft lips, and smiles. There's an electrician training program he's read about in Truro. Maybe he'll give them a call this week.

Ben walks across the Platt and waves to a few of his mates. A lorry is coming down the hill, carrying a load of slate from the quarry in Delabole. The driver is daydreaming about last night's football match between Manchester and Fulham. It was a hard fought game, and he had money on Fulham, but it was wasted. The road is slippery from the rain and the lorry, going too fast for the steep road, begins to skid. In a panic, the driver slams the brakes to the floor, but can't stop the speeding lorry.

The wind kicks up, and Ben doesn't hear his mates yelling for him to get out of the way. Afterwards, they described hearing a dull thud as the lorry hit Ben full on and sent him careening into the air. He fell a few feet in front of the lorry and lay motionless, arms and legs a sprawl. Blood is gushing from his mouth and nose, forming a large, dark pool on the pavement. For a moment, there is thundering silence.

Then, the screams from the horrified witnesses are heard throughout the village.

_To be continued…._


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: The story and characters of Doc Martin belong to Buffalo Pictures. This work of fan fiction is for personal amusement only and no infringement of any legal rights is intended.**

**Thank you to my beta, robspace54, for his thoughtful suggestions and thorough editing. All errors are my own.**

The Consultation

Chapter 9

Martin hears Morwenna scream from the reception and bolts from his desk. Before he can get to the door, she rushes into the room and yells, "It's Ben! You have to get down there now!"

"Calm down and make some sense. What happened?" He grabs his medical case and brushes past her. She follows him and tearfully replies, "He was hit by a lorry." She starts to sob. "I'm coming with you."

"No!" he barks, "the surgery can't stay unattended." Two more patients have arrived since Morwenna got the call from PC Penhale and they avidly watch the lively exchange between the pretty receptionist and Doc Martin.

"But you don't understand!" she cries, and follows him to the front door.

Martin retorts "Stay!" and quickly exits the surgery. He runs down Roscarrock hill and his mind races through the trauma protocol; he just hopes the patient is alive to benefit from it.

He rounds the corner and slows down long enough to scan the scene in front of him. A lorry is stopped in the middle of the Platt and the driver sits on the harbor wall, holding an ice pack to his head. His gaze quickly moves on to Al Large and a group of men gathered around the still body of Ben Tulley.

Martin races towards them but stops a few feet short of the victim, overpowered by the metallic stench of blood. He looks at Ben and sees blood dripping from a gash on his forehead; it forms a glistening, crimson pool on the wet pavement beneath him.

He closes his eyes and the ground shifts under his feet; his stomach heaves and his heart pounds in his chest. He wills the voice of Dr. Milligan to break through the cresting wave of panic; _"The patient is on the operating table, you are in control…"_

"Doc!" exclaimed Al, his blue eyes filled with fear. "Thank goodness you're here. I called the air ambulance and they said they'd be here soon, weather permitting and all." Al worriedly glances at the surf crashing against the twin break walls at the mouth of the harbor.

Martin shifts his gaze from Al to Ben, gravely injured and in desperate need of his help. The years of training take over and he kneels alongside Ben, ignoring the blood soaking his trousers. He places his hand on the patient's neck and feels the weak but reassuring pulse of the carotid artery. Next, he whips the penlight of his breast pocket and shines it on Ben's pupils; sluggish but reactive. "Good," Martin murmurs.

Joe Penhale arrives carrying a back board and a cervical collar. "I got these from the life boat station."

Martin nods, surprised by the police constables efficiency. He pulls on a pair of gloves and carefully secures the cervical collar around Ben's neck. He then curtly tells Al and Joe, "You're both going to help me get him on the board."

Joe hesitates and says shakily, "Ok Doc."

Martin asks him quietly, "Can you handle this?" Joe nods and swiftly lays the board next to Ben.

"Doc, ready when you are," said Al, now crouched by Ben's feet.

"On my count, one, two, three." Ben moans as they roll him on his side and place the board under him. Joe scrambles to secure the restraints and Martin does an initial assessment; head laceration, broken arm, and multiple abrasions. More worrisome, was Ben's yelp of pain when Martin palpated his spleen. He looks up and asks "What's the ETA on the helo?"

As Penhale reaches for his radio, they hear the drone of the medical helicopter approaching, its warning beacons flashing. The orange craft flutters lower, testing the wind, blowing grit over the Platt and houses as it lands gingerly on the gravel shingle.

Martin peels off his gloves and yells, "Let's get him down to the beach!" He looks around, "Wait, we need to get the driver to hospital as well! Joe you walk him down." He gestures to Al. "You take the other end of the board." He looked over at the gawkers. "You two!" He pinned the fishermen with his glare. "Take the sides! Careful now!"

The four men slowly lift Ben and he groans. This reassures Martin, that given the nature of his injuries, the patient is not completely senseless. They start to make their way cautiously towards the waiting helicopter when they hear a woman scream.

Morwenna rushes up to them, takes a look at Ben and starts to cry hysterically.

"Oh no, he's dead," she wails.

Martin snaps, "He's _not_ dead and I told you not to leave the surgery unattended!"

"But I didn't! Louisa's there, with the baby," she answers tearfully.

He wonders what Louisa is doing at the surgery but pushes that thought from his mind to concentrate on getting Ben safely to the beach. Morwenna follows them and hears Ben moan, reassuring her that he is indeed alive. They approach the helicopter and she yells to Al over the noise of the blades and turbine engine, "Tell granddad I've gone with him, to hospital!"

The medical personnel help them slide the board into the copter. The lorry driver, complaining of a headache and neck pain, follows and is strapped into a jump seat.

Martin screams into the ear of the attendant. "Hit by a lorry. Don't know how fast. Unconscious when I arrived. Bleeding gash to the forehead. Pupils equal and reactive. Pulse good. Broken arm, contusions – the usual. I'm concerned about his spleen, though!"

The attendant nods. He's seen this so many times. "Right! We got him now. Thanks!" The man gives Martin thumbs up, then scrambles into the back of the chopper.

Penhale yells over the noise, "Wait! Does he have any family that needs to be called?"

Morwenna clambers into the helicopter and answers, "His mother lives in Devon and…" her voice breaks. "Let me go with him… he's…"

They are interrupted by the attendant shouting, "We have to get going. Clear the area!"

Martin signals everyone to follow him and they hurry up to the Platt to watch the helicopter lift off. The men anxiously watch as gusts of wind and rain buffets the bird, making it sway precariously over the beach. It finally steadies and heads southwest, towards Truro.

"Good work all around," Joe exclaims, slapping Al on the back. He's about to do the same to Martin, but stops when he sees the scowl on the GP's face. Without a word, Martin collects his medical case and briskly walks up the hill to the surgery.

Martin raises his arm to look at his watch and sees the blood stains on the cuff of his shirt; he's surprisingly not bothered by them. Possibly, the hours of listening to Milligan's monotonous voice are finally paying off, he muses.

It starts to rain again and he hurries up the steps to the surgery. He goes in and sees Louisa sitting at the desk, phone in one hand and baby James on her lap. "Yes Mrs. Gordon, he can see you on Monday at ten o'clock," she says into the phone.

She hangs up and Martin says, "Why are you here? Is the baby unwell?" He's frowning and water is dripping from his blood stained suit.

"No, James is fine. I left his toy bunny here when I collected him earlier."

Louisa looked first in the kitchen and then the lounge but had not seen James' favorite toy. She carried the baby upstairs and spotted the bunny's ears peaking from underneath the pillow on Martin's bed. As she reached for it, her hand brushed against the soft sheet. She smelled the clean scent of his soap, and remembered the few times Martin had passionately made love to her in this very bed.

Louisa slowly picked up the bunny and felt her chest become heavy with unshed tears. Last night, she sadly told Caroline there is little hope that she and Martin will ever work things out. Caroline had hugged her, insisting they go to a nearby café and order the chocolatiest piece of cake on the menu. This cheered her up a little, and she returned to Portwenn sad but calmly resigned to a life without Martin.

"How's Ben?" asks Louisa. She gets up and puts James, happily drooling over his bunny, in the buggy.

"I'm not sure. It will be touch and go, I imagine." He shrugs off his wet jacket and goes through to the consulting room to wash his hands.

Louisa hears him switch off the faucet and says, "Poor Morwenna, she was so upset when I got here. Good thing I came, that way she was able to go to him."

He stands in the doorway, and says sternly, "I explicitly told her not to leave the surgery. She could lose her job over this!"

Louisa looks at him, aghast. "Are you serious? The poor girl's boyfriend gets hit by a lorry and you fault her for wanting to be with him?"

"Boyfriend? Well, how was I to know?" He snaps.

"That's right Martin, how were you to know," she retorts. "Morwenna's been talking nonstop about Ben for the last two months." She takes a deep breath and continues," You should pay attention to what people have to say, Martin. Maybe, just maybe, you'd learn something."

Martin starts as the toilet flushes in the lavatory off the reception. The door opens and an elderly man slowly shuffles out, his rheumy eyes fixed on the floor. "Don't let me stop you," he said cheerfully.

"What do you want?" barks Martin.

"Mr. Sweet is your one o'clock appointment," said Louisa, bundling James in his coat.

"Gout, Doc. It's acting up again." He's about to sit on one of the reception chairs when Martin snaps, "Go wait for me in the consulting room."

"Alright, don't get all snarky." Martin moves aside, and he slowly limps to the exam coach.

Martin goes to Louisa and says softly, "Look, I really didn't know about Morwenna…."

"It doesn't matter, Martin." She reaches for her coat and pushes the buggy to the door. He opens it for her, and she says sadly, "I wish things were different, you know…" She trails off and looks at the gray clouds scurrying over the stormy sea.

Martin anxiously racks his brain for a response that won't upset Louisa, but he comes up short. Instead he asks, "Did you give some thought to the christening?"

She shrugs. "I jotted down some notes. I'll drop them off sometime this week." Martin gently touches James forehead, and then helps Louisa push the buggy over the bumpy threshold.

"Doc, are you going to see me before I die, or what?" yells Mr. Sweet from the consulting room.

They look at each other and Louisa starts to laugh. "You better go see him."

Martin suppresses a smile and says, "He's a bit of a grump, isn't he?" He lightly touches her arm and goes to see his patient.

**Authors Note:**

**I borrowed James favorite stuffed bunny from jd517's story "Family Matters" and it has since hopped to robspace54's story "Unfathomable." Thanks jd517 for the loan!**


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: The story and characters of Doc Martin belong to Buffalo Pictures. This work of fan fiction is for personal amusement only and no infringement of any legal rights is intended.**

**Thank you to my beta, robspace54, for his thoughtful suggestions and thorough editing. All errors are my own.**

The Consultation 

Chapter 10

The porter goes though the automated doors of the High Dependency Unit, one squeaky wheel in time with the steady ping of the monitor attached to Ben's chest. A jumble of IV bags sways gently on a hook above his head, dripping life sustaining fluids and medications into his veins. He stops at the reception and asks the bored looking twenty-something playing solitaire on the computer, "Hey Lisa, who's in charge of this one?"

She breaks away long enough to glance at the patient. "Nurse O'Neil. Down the hall to the right."

"Thanks. Any chance of a drink later?" he asks playfully.

"Nope," she answers flatly and turns back to the screen.

He grins and figures it's worth a try; he might just get lucky one day. He pushes the poor sod on the gurney further into the ward.

Nurse Kathy O'Neil spots her patient from across the unit and quickly walks over. Her auburn hair is pulled back in a loose pony tail and her green eyes expertly gives Ben a quick once over. "Stop nattering and get him to room eleven," she snapped.

They settle Ben into his hospital bed and Kathy checks on the drips and monitors. His vitals are holding steady and the results of the scans are not as dire as expected; concussion, lacerated spleen, broken arm and nose. The MRI showed a small vertebral fracture without signs of paralysis, and the air ambulance medic said the patient had Doc Ellingham to thank for that. The man, he continued, is a tosser but he knows what he's about.

Kathy knows Ellingham from the trail of irate nurses he leaves in his wake at rounds, but never had the dubious pleasure of meeting him until she covered maternity a few months ago.

It was one of those days when laboring women rolled in faster than they had beds, and she was assigned to the school teacher who delivered a baby boy in a pub somewhere out on the moor.

Kathy walked in the room to check on mom and baby and was greeted by Dr. Ellingham, barking orders at the newly qualified Dr. Chaaya Sanjay, who was shaking in her size five clogs. At first, Kathy didn't understand what in heaven's name he was doing here, but as his tirade continued and the school teacher - what was her name again? Oh yes, Louisa - asked him to please calm down you are upsetting our son, it dawned on Kathy that _he_ was the father. How this attractive and amiable woman had let this surly and rude man close enough to produce a child was beyond her. Of course, opposites often attract; her nursing school mates were shocked when the fun loving Kathy had married a quiet minister ten years her senior and given birth to twin boys a year later.

Outside the patient's room, Kathy asked why Edith Montgomery had not attended Louisa Glasson - she was her patient after all - and Chaaya had evasively answered that Dr. Montgomery had been urgently called away. Kathy thought that was odd; she had seen Montgomery reviewing patient Glasson's chart a few minutes ago at the nurses' station.

She discreetly probed the hospital's gossip pool and learnt that Edith Montgomery had been engaged to Dr. Ellingham some years ago and were recently seen together in Portwenn and Truro. Edith had broadly hinted that they were dating, but Kathy wouldn't put it past Edith to exaggerate the nature of her relationship with Martin Ellingham. She'd pegged that one as a self-absorbed, status seeking, and man eating bitch, an opinion shared by most of the nurses on the OB ward.

Her source snidely added that Ellingham didn't even know about the school teacher's pregnancy until three months ago and that he's now moving to London, leaving the poor woman to fend for herself. Kathy shook her head and thought the whole story sounded like something out of Corrie Street.

She walked into Miss Glasson's room, discharge papers in hand, and saw Dr. Ellingham softly gazing at the child in his arms. Mum was propped up in bed, tenderly watching father and son. It was plain as day that she was in love with the father of her child. The moment ended when the baby started to cry and he quickly handed him over to Louisa, who placed the now howling infant to her breast.

Kathy asked if they were ready to leave hospital and Louisa answered back that Martin was on his way to London, and she would have the baby's great aunt take her and the baby home. She raised an eyebrow and was about to say how unfortunate, when Dr. Ellingham announced he would delay his departure for London and take them home. She read the relief in Louisa's face, but thought the poor woman was in for a difficult time; a new baby and an unsettled relationship don't make for good bedfellows.

Kathy draws blood from Ben's central line and he stirs, mumbles something about a party and a girl, and is out again. Kathy figures the girl must be Morwenna, who was pacing in reception and asking Lisa every few minutes if she could please, just please see Ben? Lisa had finally asked Kathy to get everyone out of their misery and allow the girl in to see her boyfriend.

She bags the vials and presses the intercom, "Lisa, can you show in Miss Newcross?"

Morwenna steps into the room and slowly walks to Ben's bedside, her eyes wide with worry. "How is he?" she asks quietly, and gently touches his face. The gash on his forehead is covered with gauze and the bruises on his face are starting to turn dark shades of red and purple.

"He's holding his own. Vital signs are good." She pulls up one eyelid at a time and checks his pupils with the bedside ophthalmoscope. "His pupils are reacting. That's a good sign," she says with a smile.

They hear rustling from the doorway and the two women turn to look at the registrar rifling through Ben's chart. His deep brown eyes scan the monitors before turning to Morwenna. "I'm Philip Alder, a registrar on Mr. Pitts' team."

Kathy makes a moo of distaste at the sound of Pitts' name. He's a good enough surgeon, but also an arrogant prat _and_ a womanizer. He's dated a least half of the new graduate nurses employed by the hospital in the last year and none of them had anything good to say about him.

Morwenna slips her hand into Ben's. "How's he doing, really? He's not waking up and someone said something about a cut on his spleen." She pauses, her brow furrowed, "No, a _laceration_. That's what I learned from Doc Martin's journals. I like to read them when things are slow, which doesn't happen a lot, the surgery being busy and all. "

"Doc Martin?" says Alder, perplexed.

"Dr. Ellingham, Portwenn surgery?" Morwenna answers, "I'm the receptionist." She stands a little straighter as she says this but Alder sneers at the sound of Ellingham's name. The man was a failed surgeon turned small time GP, but still walked around as if he owned the hospital. He'd been the recipient of the rude sod's ire just last week and had complained to Pitt, who told him to grow a pair of bollocks and move on.

"I see." He clears his throat. "Well, Ben is doing well considering what he's been through. The CT of his head didn't show any swelling and the one done of his abdomen shows a small laceration," he smiles at Morwenna, "which isn't bleeding a lot. This means we won't have to remove the spleen unless it starts to bleed more than it is now. And he should start waking up in the next few hours but don't expect him to make much sense or remember what happened to him today." He sees the tension in her pretty eyes eases a little. "You should talk to him. It may help him regain consciousness faster." Morwenna tightens her grip on Ben's hand and is about to thank Philip when a heavy set women dressed in a cashmere coat and smelling of expensive perfume strides into the room. She's followed by an irate Lisa from reception who yells, "Ma'am, you can't just walk in here. You have to sign in and provide a form of ID."

She ignores Lisa and everyone else in the room and comes to stands next to Morwenna. Her mouth is pinched and her brow would be furrowed if she hadn't gone for Botox the day before. They all stare at

her, uncertain what to do when she says, "He wouldn't be lying here if he worked for the family business instead of playing at being a fish hand in that backwater village."

Philip, Kathy and Morwenna are dumbstruck and Ben remains, unresponsive. Kathy finally steps forward and asks, "And you are?"

"Alphia Tulley, his mother."

Ben's told Morwenna plenty about his overbearing mother and explained he just couldn't see himself working in the pet food manufacturing business for the rest of his life. He'd asked Morwenna if she had ever seen how pet food is made and she shook her head. Ben had gone on to explain how disgusting and disturbing it all was, that being the reason why he's now a vegetarian. His mother had been fit to be tied when he left, but he hadn't cared.

Alphia sees Ben's hand tucked into Morwenna's and coldly asks, "Why are you holding my son's hand?"

She nervously answers, "I'm his friend, well really his girlfriend."

Alphia Tulley gives Morwenna an appraising look and decides this won't do. "You can run along, now that I'm here." She turns away and starts throwing questions at the registrar, effectively dismissing Morwenna.

Morwenna's lets out a loud sob, and runs out of the room.


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer: The story and characters of Doc Martin belong to Buffalo Pictures. This work of fan fiction is for personal amusement only and no infringement of any legal rights is intended.**

**Thank you to my beta, robspace54, for his thoughtful suggestions and thorough editing. All errors are my own.**

The Consultation 

Chapter 11

Martin steers the Lexus through the narrow village streets and passes the scene of yesterday's lorry accident on his way to the main road leading to Truro. There isn't much traffic on this early Sunday morning, and he hopes to arrive at hospital in time for rounds.

He switches on BBC 2 and the opening strain of Bach's Brandenburg concertos fill the car, one of his favorites. Last night, he had one of his recurrent nightmares and padded downstairs to listen to the concertos on the DVD player. This helped chase the demons back to where they came from and he fell asleep, but woke up stiff and sore on the lounge sofa at the break of dawn. There were nightmares when Louisa shared a bed with him; but instead of turning to Bach or Mozart for solace he would place his hand on the soft curve of her waist and feel the rise and fall of her breath, soothing him ways that no piece of music ever could.

Martin stifles a yawn as the car accelerates up a short rise. At the top, he is startled by a small flock of sheep huddled in the middle of the dirt road and he hits the brakes. The tires skid on the wet gravel and he comes to a stop, narrowly missing the beasts. "Bloody hell", he exclaims and gets out of the car. The sheep run up the foot path and stare at him vacuously with their beady eyes. He looks around for the farmer, primed to give him a good upbraiding.

"Martin!" His Aunt Ruth walks quickly up the road from the farmhouse. "Glad you found them."

"They found me," he answers angrily. "You can't have these animals wandering around the road. Someone's going to get hurt."

"Thanks for stating the obvious, Martin." It starts to rain and she wraps her coat tightly around her thin frame. "I could use some help getting them back into their pen."

Martin frowns. "Where's Al? Isn't he supposed to be helping you?"

Ruth shrugs. "Not today." Al had made himself scarce after he admitted using the fence money to pay off his father's debt and she had muddled on her own, unsure of the feeding schedule for the animals or how to tend to the early winter crops. It was a relief when Al called and said he wanted to talk; they agreed to meet in the village early in the week. She is ready for him come back, tired of tending the chickens and chasing the sheep around. And she does miss their chats and chess matches, even though he wins most of the time.

"I warned you not to rely on anyone from the village." He briskly walks up the foot path, careful to skirt around the mud puddles and sheep droppings.

Ruth is about to reply that he's being unreasonable when Buddy comes bounding up the hill and starts to bark furiously at the sheep.

"He thinks he's a sheep dog," says Ruth. Martin sniggers but then watches in amazement as Buddy weaves around the sheep's spindly legs, and herds them into the pen. The little dog runs to Ruth and sits down next to her with a look of smug satisfaction on his sweet doggy face.

"Good boy, Buddy." She secures the gate and promises him a special treat with his breakfast.She turns to Martin, "Would you like to stay for breakfast?"

"No, I've already eaten. I was on my way to Truro Hospital when your livestock jumped in front of my car." He wipes his hands with a handkerchief and looks at his watch.

"Oh yes. I heard about the accident yesterday." Ruth walks Martin to his car and Buddy trails behind her. She faces Martin and asks, "How are your preparations coming along? You _are_ leaving for London in less than two weeks."

He sighs. Is it that soon? The solicitor had called to go over the financial arrangements for Louisa and James and there's the matter of returning Dawson's call at Imperial. He turns away from his aunt's piercing gaze, and looks at the moor, cloaked in autumn's dusky colors. As if in a nightmare, he sees himself stranded on an out of control train, trying desperately to find a way to stop it, but can't.

Ruth sees that something is amiss, but decides to keep quiet. She and the little dog watch him drive away and, after the car disappeared on the horizon, they walk down the hill to the farmhouse.

XXXXX

Martin walks through the empty corridors of Truro hospital and listens to the sound of his footsteps bounce sharply off the gleaming white walls. The stillness may seem eerie to some, but to Martin it's like an old friend. As a registrar and later as chief of vascular, he took surgical call on most weekends. He won't be expected to take weekend call at Imperial but he might as well. There won't be much for him to do in London other than work, and he can't be expected to travel the five hours to Portwenn every weekend to see James Henry.

Aunt Ruth's words keep repeating like an endless loop in his head- _leaving in less than two weeks._ He stops outside the High Dependency Unit and looks out the window at the spires of Truro Cathedral stretching up to the overcast sky. Not in a million years had he ever imagined being a father. But now that he is a father, the thought of not being be on hand to hear his son's first words or watch him take his first steps brings on a sense of loss that takes his breath away.

From the reception, Lisa watches the tall, impeccably dressed man standing by the window. She sees lots of people come through the unit; some sit sad and depressed and others pace worried and upset. This man has a stern look about him, but she can see the sadness in his eyes and in the slump of his shoulders, as if he's carrying a burden of which he can't speak. He must have sensed her looking at him, for he turns and walks up to her desk.

"Dr. Ellingham. I'm here to see Ben Tulley."

Lisa points to the visitors register "Sign here."

Martin shows his hospital identification, and stops at the nurse's station for Ben's record. The nurse points to the second bed from the station and he sees Morwenna sitting by Ben's side. There are dark circles under her eyes and her clothes look untidy and slept in. She turns her head and smiles when she sees it's him. "Doc! It's nice to see a familiar face."

He stands on the other side of the bed, and flips through Ben's record. "Has he woken up at all?"

"He did about ten minutes ago and twice during the night." Morwenna had snuck back in after Ben's horrid mother had left to spend the night at a hotel. Alphia hadn't seen the point in staying and left her mobile number with the staff in case something happened. Even though it was against the rules, Kathy had settled Morwenna on a cot next to Ben and hoped she wouldn't get into too much trouble with matron.

Kathy bustles in carrying a syringe and stops at the foot of the bed. Morwenna smiles and says "Doc, this is Kathy, Ben's nurse." Her expression freezes when she sees what Kathy is holding. She jumps up and says, "I don't like needles." She gives Ben's hand a squeeze and quickly leaves.

Martin looks at Kathy and thinks she looks familiar but he can't recall where or when he'd seen her. He shrugs and asks, "Has he complained of abdominal pain, right about here?" He points to the left side of Ben's abdomen, below the rib cage.

"Yes, he did the last time he woke up. I have some pain medication for him." She holds up the syringe.

"Don't give it to him." As Martin gingerly press down on Ben's abdomen, he feels the soft contour of the spleen along with a worrisome fullness. He pulls the hospital gown to one side and frowns at the series of red striated marks extending to both flanks.

Martin pulls the gown over Ben as Adrian Pitts enters followed by Philip Adler and a young female registrar. The surgical consultant stops short when he sees Martin but recovers quickly and says, "Dr. Ellingham! To what do we owe the pleasure?" He smiles but eyes Martin coldly.

"Have you looked at this patient's scan and lab work?" Martin asks quietly. He stares at Pitts impassively, but a knot of anger tightens in his chest. Pitts had taken a malicious pleasure in telling the denizens of Portwenn all about their new GP's little problem with blood and the village idiots had used this as an opportunity to ridicule him. This happened five years ago, but Martin could hold a grudge and had not forgiven his former pupil.

"Of course. I'm the surgical consultant on this case."

"You didn't see anything unusual?" Martin hands Pitts the reports.

He ignores the papers in his hand. "A faint blush on the CT, and a small drop in the hematocrit but nothing else to indicate a worsening of the patient's condition, _Dr_. Ellingham," he answers lightly, but squirms under Martin's unrelenting gaze.

"A two point drop in the patient's hematocrit and signs of bleed on CT don't concern you?" Pitts recognizes the ominous tone in his former chief's voice and quickly glances at the report. He turns to Adler and snaps, "why didn't you tell me about the change in his blood count?"

The flustered registrar is about to answer when Martin flicks open's Ben's gown and gestures for the consultant to have a look.

"What would you call this, _Mr_. Pitts?" he asks bluntly.

Pitts swallows hard before answering, "Grey Tuner's sign." He turns to Adler. "Call the theater and tell them were bringing a patient in for an emergency splenectomy." Adler starts to leave but isn't quick enough for now irate Pitts. "Now!" he bellows. Adler scurries off and Pitts turns to Martin. "Good call, chief."

Martin sneers, "You're an incompetent arse."

Pitts takes a step back, knowing full well he has lost this round with Ellingham.

Adler hurries back and says, "Operating Theater one is ready for us."

Pitts turns to the female registrar, "You're scrubbing in." The pretty blond smirks at Adler before disappearing down the corridor after Pitts. "Bloody bitch," he mutters under his breath and shoves past Martin on his way to the nurse's station.

Martin watches him walk away. Edith was always asked to scrub in for the most interesting cases by their chief while her fellow registrars were side lined to the gallbladders and hernia repairs. Later, she'd callously told Martin that sleeping with the chief was a means to an end and that he really shouldn't take it personally. He hadn't trusted her after that, but still had been devastated when she broke off their engagement a few months later.

He's about to leave when Kathy calls out, "Dr. Ellingham! He's dropping his blood pressure."

Martin hurries to Ben's side and looks at the monitors. "He could be bleeding out. We need to get him to theater."

Kathy nods and wonders what's taking the porter so long. She's about run to the nurse's station to ask for assistance when they hear the rattle of a stretcher coming down the corridor. Kathy yells out, "Hurry up! We have to get this one out of here now!"

Martin grabs one side of the bed sheet and helps Kathy place Ben on the stretcher, careful not to jostle his fragile spleen. Kathy quickly transfers the IV bags and they race to the service lift.

Morwenna is on her way back from the cafeteria and sees Ben being taken away by an anxious looking Doc Martin and Kathy. She runs after them and yells, "What's going on?" Kathy stops long enough to tell her, "He needs surgery. I'll be back to talk to you." She enters the lift and the doors shut with a finality that unnerves Morwenna.

She looks wildly around the unit for someone to ask about Ben, and sees Philip Adler at the nurse's station. Her eyes are glassy with tears and worry as she rushes up to him and asks, "Is Ben going to be okay?" Before he can answer, they hear a woman's loud and strident voice coming from the reception area.

"What do you mean he's been taken to theater? Wasn't I supposed to be notified?"

Alphia Tulley marches into the unit and spots Adler standing with Morwenna.

"Are you going to tell me what happened?" She barks at Adler.

Philip sighs and wonders how he got to play nursery maid to these two instead of assisting in theater. "His spleen is bleeding into the abdominal cavity and needs to be removed urgently. He'll be in theater for about an hour and then in recovery for a few hours before being brought back here."

Alphia replies, "That's very well and good, but how long is he going to be in hospital now? I have a business to run and can't possibly be expected to do so from a hospital room."

Morwenna's eyes swim with anger. She turns to Alphia and yells, "Then why don't you leave? I know he doesn't want you here!" She takes a step back. "Ben told me he hates you, and I can see why."

She turns and runs towards the exit, tears streaming down her cheeks.

To be continued….

**Medical Glossary**

**Grey Turners sign- Refers to bruising of the flanks and indicates an accumulation of blood in the space between the abdominal organs. In this chapter, Ben's spleen is leaking blood into this space and causing the flank bruising. This sign is named after British surgeon George Grey Turner. He served in the Royal Army Medical Corps during the World War I and made one of the earliest attempts to remove a bullet from a soldier's heart. **

**Hematocrit- This is the measure, expressed in percentage, of the number of red blood cells in a sample of blood. A declining percentage is a bad sign in a critically ill patient like Ben. **


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer: The story and characters of Doc Martin belong to Buffalo Pictures. This work of fan fiction is for personal amusement only and no infringement of any legal rights is intended.**

**Thank you to my beta, robspace54, for his thoughtful suggestions and thorough editing. All errors are my own.**

The Consultation

Chapter 12

Martin looks down at the operating theater from his perch in the observation gallery. It seems a lifetime ago when he stood in a theater such as this one and collapsed, leaving his surgical career in taters on the hard tile floor. His five years of exile are about to come to an end, and he resolves to be what he is meant to be – a surgeon, saving lives with the skillful wielding of the scalpel.

There is a comforting familiarity to the sights and sounds before him; the clang of surgical implements as the scrub nurse neatly lines them on a tray, the soft whoosh of the suction unit, the cold bright lights.

His eyes follow the senseless body of Ben Tulley being wheeled into the theater. The scrub nurse places the sterile drapes on Ben's abdomen and paints iodine on his bare skin with a few, swift strokes. She turns to Adrian Pitts as he strides in, his scrubbed hands held high, ready for her to snap on his gloves. He tersely fires last minute orders as the anesthetist slides the endotracheal tube down Ben's throat and the registrar takes her place next to Pitts.

"Scalpel," he barks. The nurse slaps it into his waiting hand and he presses its sharp tip on Ben's abdomen, poised to start. He glances up at the clock to call time, but freezes when he sees Ellingham looking down from the observation gallery. Their eyes lock and Pitts glares at Martin defiantly. _I'm the one holding the scalpel, not you._

_Idiot,_ sneers Martin. His former pupil's inattention to detail had almost cost this patient his life. If he couldn't perform this surgery himself, then he wants Pitts to know he's watching his every move.

Martin leans forward as Pitts slides the sharp blade along the taunt skin, cutting through the layers of muscle and fascia. Blood wells up, soaking the drapes covering Ben's abdomen.

Pitts furtively glances at the gallery, expecting his former chief to run at the first sight of blood. Martin feels a surge of anger at his former pupil's insolence. The tosser had been a thorn in Martin's side at St. Mary's, sucking up to his superiors to garner favor and dumping his work load on the other registrars so he could shag his latest conquest in the call room. It had been a relief when Pitts left, with a poor recommendation from Martin and a grudge the size of Australia.

Martin's gaze is unwavering and he forces himself not to flinch when Pitts slips his gloved hand into the blood filled cavity. He suddenly holds the memory of his own hand wading through the warm, wet, slippery blood, grasping and slicing through the ligaments that anchor the spleen to the abdomen.

The suction makes a high pitched noise as it slurps the blood, red and foamy, through the clear tubing to the containers attached to the wall. Martin swallows hard as the pungent, metallic smell of blood fills his nostril.

Martin feels sweat trickle under his armpits and gather around his groin; his stomach heaves but he refuses to look away. Pitts removes the torn spleen from Ben's abdomen and carelessly drops it in the metal basin on the instrument tray, splattering the scrub nurse and the registrar with blood. They both give him a foul look, which he ignores.

Martin takes a few deep breaths and like a mantra, he recites the steps required to perform a splenectomy : incise the gastro splenic ligament; dissect the splenic artery and veins; remove the spleen. His nausea starts to recede as Pitts finally instructs the registrar to close the incision.

He steps away and leans against the cool tiled wall. For the hundredth time, he wonders why incompetent bastards like Pitts lord over the theater while he, the much better surgeon, is relegated to the sidelines by these vile panic attacks. His clenched fist hits the wall in anger and despair. Soon, he will be expected to perform surgery at Imperial; any sign of weakness, and the surgical staff will tear him apart like a pack of hyena's feasting on prey.

He slumps against the wall and breaths deeply, his anger ebbing away. This has to stop. He hasn't been listening to Milligan's CD's nor doing the desensitizing exercises. He vows to redouble his efforts with both and hopes it will be enough to help him overcome the panic attacks.

Martin wipes his brow with a well pressed handkerchief and exits the gallery, hoping to leave the hospital unnoticed. He's halfway down the corridor when he hears a voices woman's voice calling after him. He walks faster but she calls again and runs after him.

He gives up and stops. Kathy O'Neil stands in front of him, strands of hair falling out of her ponytail and slightly out of breath.

"Dr. Ellingham! I glad I caught you before you left." She frowns at his pallor and the sweat beading on his upper lip. "Are you okay?"

Martin ignores her question. "What is it? Are there complications with the emergency splenectomy?" he asks sharply.

"No, thank goodness. That was a close call, though." She shifts uneasily. "Actually, I have a favor to ask of you." He raises an eyebrow and waits impatiently for her to continue. "Could you give Morwenna a lift home? She's exhausted and Ben's mother isn't too keen on having her here." That's an understatement if there ever was one, thinks Kathy. It had taken every ounce of her already limited patience to prevent Alphia from calling security after Morwenna gave the woman a well-deserved tongue lashing.

Kathy looks expectantly at Martin. He sighs and says, "Have her meet me in the lobby in ten minutes."

He starts to walk away when Kathy calls out, "You don't remember me, do you?" He slowly turns. There _is_ something vaguely familiar about her and suddenly he remembers; a glowing Louisa smiling at him as she held their newborn son, the hospital room, this nurse. He had hoped they could be a family, he and Louisa and their baby son. Well, there's no hope for that now. He's weary from the panic attack and thinks this train of thought isn't going to make him feel any better.

Kathy says brightly, "I attended your baby and his mum a few months ago." She smiles. "How is your baby? A little boy if I remember correctly."

"Fine, thank you." He abruptly turns and walks away but not before she sees the sadness in his blue eyes. The poor bugger, she thinks, he's really unhappy.

But she has more pressing matters to attend to than Dr. Ellingham's unhappiness. She left Morwenna and Alphia in reception, glaring at each other from across the room while they wait for Ben to come out of surgery. Kathy hurries to the unit and hopes she won't have another cat fight on her hands.


	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer: The story and characters of Doc Martin belong to Buffalo Pictures. This work of fan fiction is for personal amusement only and no infringement of any legal rights is intended.**

**Thank you to my beta, robspace54, for his thoughtful suggestions and thorough editing. All errors are my own.**

The Consultation

Chapter 13

Martin looks around the hospital lobby for Morwenna. It is the usual depressing affair, garish florescent lights, hard plastic seating, and the smell of sickness tinged with disinfectant. Visitors push through the glass doors, some carrying flowers or packages, others empty handed. Martin glances at his watch. It's almost eleven. He has one house call to make on his way to Portwenn, then home to have a late lunch. After the ordeal in the operating theater, he looks forward to a quiet afternoon, listening to Milligan's CD and tinkering with one of his clocks.

He is about to call the unit when he sees Morwenna exit the lift. She quickly walks towards him, her face lined with worry. He gestures for her to follow him, but she stops, tears spilling down her cheeks. She swipes at them with her coat sleeve and Martin looks away. He's never done well with crying females, finding that whatever he says invariably makes things worse.

Between sobs, she asks, "Doc, is Ben going to be okay? The surgeon wouldn't talk to me because I'm not family."

Or more likely, Pitts didn't want to deal with her. Count on tosser to follow the rules when it suits him, Martin thinks dryly.

"Morwenna, you know I can't break patient confidentiality."

She drops her shoulder bag on the floor, sits in the nearest chair and buries her face in her hands.

Martin shifts uncomfortably and says, "I'm already behind schedule."

She looks up at him, eyes red and puffy. "You don't understand. That horrible mother of his won't let me near him. How am I supposed to find out if he'll be alright?" She wipes her nose with the back of her hand and Martin can't stand it anymore. He fishes in his pocket for a handkerchief, and hands it to her. Morwenna gratefully takes it and noisily blows her nose.

He sighs. The car trip to Portwenn will be miserable enough without Morwenna asking him the same question over and over again. But there's patient confidentiality to consider.

Martin quickly thinks it over and says, "I watched the surgery. It went well. He's expected to recover. Can we go now?"

Morwenna smiles weakly and says, "Thanks, Doc," but he's already walking away. Morwenna scrambles to her feet, starts to run but almost crashes into him when he suddenly stops to pull his ringing mobile out of his pocket.

Louisa's name pops up on the screen and he quickly answers. "Louisa? Is everything alright?"

"I'm fine and so is James." She drops her voice to a whisper, "It's my mother. She's been complaining of belly pain since early this morning and I'm a little worried." Martin gestures for Morwenna to stay and he moves out of earshot. "Does she have other symptoms, fever, vomiting, or diarrhea?" He stops in front of a window and absently looks at an ambulance pulling into the A & E.

"No, nothing like that." Martin is relieved. At least, Louisa and James are not running the risk of becoming ill with whatever ails Eleanor.

Louisa continues, "The pain comes and goes. She's been drinking one of her concoctions and it seems to help, but still." Martin rolls his eyes and hopes the witch is keeping her ghastly brews away from his son.

"I'll be back in Portwenn in a few hours. I'll stop in to see her then."

"Well that's just it. She doesn't want you examining her."

"Now she's being ridiculous," he snaps.

"I know, but what do you want me to do?" Louisa says, exasperated. Martin hears the baby grizzle and she softly coos to quiet him down.

"Tell her to go to the surgery in Wadebridge. It could be nothing, but you won't know for certain unless she has a thorough examination."

Louisa sighs. "Right. I'll tell her." He hears the weariness in her voice and feels anger at the worry the foolish woman is causing her daughter.

Martin's voice softens. "Louisa, why don't you…"He hears Eleanor in the background and Louisa quickly says, "I'd better go. I'll call if I need anything."

She disconnects the call and he angrily pockets his phone. He was going to suggest collecting James on his way to the surgery so Louisa could have a rest, but the damn woman interrupted him. Louisa sounded exhausted and he worries that she is pushing herself too hard, working full time, caring for James and now her mother.

Morwenna stands by listlessly, waiting for Martin to finish his call. "Ready?" he asks and pushes through the doors, not waiting for an answer. He looks angry, but she's too tired and upset to give it much thought.

Morwenna feels ill at the thought of leaving Ben, vulnerable, and in the care of his horrid mother. She knows that Ben and Alphia had a major falling out a year ago after his father died suddenly of an aneurysm. Alphia insisted Ben switch from reading marine biology to business at university so he could take over running the pet food processing plants started by his grandfather. He hated reading business, he told Morweena, and he hated the pet food business even more. He couldn't bear to think of the sheep, cows and even horses, raised and slaughtered with indignity, their frozen carcasses unceremoniously dumped into giant, steaming, stinking, rendering vats, giving up their lives so his family could turn a profit.

Ben flatly refused to acquiesce to Alphia's demands, and she threatened to disinherit him. He left the family home in Devon, and started working on the fishing boats first in Newquay and then in Portwenn. The sea is where he feels the most at home, he told Morwenna. He didn't see himself being a fishing hand all his life, but it would do for now.

They had sat on the beach, she leaning against him, his arms protectively around her as he told her all this. She remembers the warmth of his skin, the faint clean smell of his soap, and his soft lips nuzzling her neck. Tears well up again, big and fat splashing down her cheeks, blurring her vision. She trips on the curb, almost falling face first on the wet pavement. Martin sees her stumble and reaches out to steady her. He frowns at Morwenna's sniveling, but doesn't say anything, hoping she will stop crying before they get into the car.

To his relief, she does. Martin steers the car on the busy city streets, the traffic heavier as church goers leave Truro Cathedral and the shops open for the afternoon. They leave the city behind them and the moor rolls by, dotted by tors and the occasional farm house.

Martin glances at Morwenna. She is fast asleep her waif like frame is curled up on the seat, tears lingering on her cheeks. She seems so childlike, he thinks. How old is she, twenty, twenty two at the most? At her age, he was a medical student, immersed in his studies at Imperial College. He lived in a bed sit, with no friends except for Chris Parsons, who barely tolerated him, and certainly had no girlfriend. That is, until Edith came along. She transferred to Imperial in their third year and Martin had watched from afar, smitten by her emerald green eyes and sharp mind. He had been amazed when she came to his room one night, wearing nothing under her coat except for a black lacey bra and panties, the kind that didn't leave much to the imagination. They made love on the hard, narrow bed. Martin blushes at the memory of his clumsiness and how Edith had expertly guided him, obviously the more experienced of the two. That had been the underlying theme throughout their relationship, Edith directing and he expected to meekly follow without question.

When they met again a few months ago the same pattern emerged, but this time, instead of letting her play him like a cat worrying a mouse, he had put a stop to it. He almost fell into Edith's clutches, at the conference in Exeter, but he had thwarted her by walking away. Her assertion, afterwards, that he suffered from a fear of intimacy couldn't have been more wrong. The truth was he desperately wanted Louisa Glasson to be in that hotel room bed with him, not Edith Montgomery.

Martin is startled to see a sign for the left turn onto the road to Portwenn. Morwenna is still asleep. Thick dark clouds sit on the horizon, threatening more rain and the car jostles along, splashing mud as the tires dip in and out of the notches in the road.

He feels his hands tighten on the steering wheel as the Butler farm comes into view. The last time he was there, the husband had clung to him, begged him to make his wife better. Delen is in the terminal stage of lung cancer, Martin had told John Butler, and the hospice nurses are doing everything possible to keep her comfortable. Martin doesn't look forward to another round of tearful questions from the patient's distressed husband, but he did promise to stop in today to check on Delen.

He slows the car and makes the turn on the dirt track leading to the farmhouse. Morwenna stirs and stretches her eyes blurry from sleep.

"Where are we?" she asks, stifling a yawn.

"I need to make a house call." He answers and shifts the gear stick to park.

"I'll come with you." She unbuckles her seat belt and is about to open the car door when he says, "No, stay here."

"But I know the Butlers. They're cousins on my mother's side." Martin rolls his eyes; these people are more inbred then his aunt's chickens. "Fine. But stay out of the way," he says curtly.

He takes his medical case out of the boot, and walks quickly to the farmhouse door Morwenna close on his heels. Martin knocks but Morwenna pushes past him and opens the door.

"John? It's Morwenna and the Doc here to see Delen." Martin steps in behind her and notes the dirty dishes pilled on the drain board and the remains of a half-eaten meal on the table. There is the stench of something sour, like bad milk, and he breathes through his mouth. The last time he was here, the place had been clean and orderly. He wonders if the husband is unable to cope and he plans on speaking to the hospice nurse about this later today.

He's about to make his way upstairs when he hears his Aunt Ruth's voice and the sound of muffled crying coming from the sitting room at the front of the house. Before he can investigate, Ruth appears in the gloomy hallway followed by John Butler, thinner and more disheveled then he had been a few days ago. Morwenna takes John's arm and leads him into the kitchen, murmuring something about a cup of tea.

Martin's blue eyes meet his aunt's and he says, "I didn't know you made house calls."

"I don't. Delen is a childhood friend," his aunt tells him. "I'm concerned with her husband," she continues. "He's not doing well and their daughter is at her wits end with him. You should call the hospice nurse and have her arrange for a grief counselor to come to the house. It's going to be terrible for him when she dies, which is going to be any day now, from the looks of her, "she finishes sadly.

"Yes. Well, I should go see her," he says, his hand on the bannister.

"Martin, there's one more thing." She pauses. "Have you seen Sally Tishell recently?"

He looks at her, puzzled. "Why are you asking?"

"I was at the chemist yesterday, collecting a prescription for the drops you prescribed, and she appeared to be in a near manic state. Now, I don't know her well, but I think her behavior has changed in the last few weeks. Have you noticed anything?"

Martin recalls seeing Sally Tishell yesterday, when she delivered medical supplies to the surgery, and had thought her behavior a little odd then. He meant to review her record but had not found the time and makes mental note to do so when he gets back to the surgery.

"I'll look into it. Anything else?" He's impatient to examine Delen and be on his way.

"No." He starts up the stairs when she asks, "How is James?"

"Fine," he answers and continues up the stairs. Ruth watches him go. It is unfortunate that her nephew inherited the irritating Ellingham trait of speaking in monosyllables. She sighs and goes to help Morwenna in the kitchen.

The floor boards creak under Martin's weight as he makes his way down the hall. A woman meets him at the sick room door, her face lined with fatigue and eyes puffy from crying. She tucks a strand of dark curly hair behind her ear with a plump hand.

"You must be Dr. Ellingham," she says with a strong Cornish accent. "I'm Jenna, Delen and John's daughter."

Martin nods and she steps aside to let him walk into the room. Delen is lying in the bed John lovingly placed her in after she collapsed five days ago. Her emaciated body is dwarfed by the pillows supporting her back and she breaths the wet, raspy breath of the dying. Martin sets down his medical case, takes out his stethoscope and gently touches her forehead before listening to her lungs. He shifts the bell to the left chest wall, and hears a faint, slow beat; one every two seconds. It won't be long now. The next time he's here will be to sign her death certificate. He sighs and looks at Jenna, standing across from him, silently weeping.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly. Suddenly, he thinks of Joan and wishes he had been given the chance to say goodbye and tell her how much he appreciated everything she had done for him over the years. The no nonsense sound of her voice fills his head and he feels tears prick his eyes. This won't do. He quickly pockets his stethoscope, picks up his medical case and leaves without another word to Jenna Butler.

He clatters down the stairs and is about to bark at Morwenna to get in the car, he has to get back now, but stops short at the scene before him. The kitchen is spotless and smells of freshly buttered toast. Aunt Ruth is sitting at the scrubbed pine table, telling John about the mischief she and Delen would get up to when they were girls. He smiles through his grief, the pain momentarily tempered by the memories of another time and place.

Morwenna places a cup of tea in front of John and gently squeezes his shoulder. Her mobile is tucked under her chin and Martin overhears her say, "Thanks so much Kathy. See you later." She slips the mobile into her shoulder bag and comes to stand next to him. "Ben is out of recovery and doing very well." She takes a deep breath. "You saved his life Doc. Kathy said so." Morwenna gives him a big smile, and her eyes sparkle despite the fatigue from the overnight vigil at Ben's bedside.

"It's my job." he replies evenly. Well, it's not his job to clean up after that moronic tosser, Adrian Pitts, but he doesn't tell her that. "I'm ready to go now," he adds instead.

"I'll stay with John for a while longer. Ruth said she would give me a lift home." She gives him one last smile and says, "Thanks again Doc."

He leaves the warmth of the farmhouse and walks towards his car. The cold rain drizzles down his neck and he shivers in his thin overcoat. The scene in the kitchen stays with him and suddenly, his well laid out plan of a quiet afternoon at home loses its appeal. An overwhelming need to hear Louisa's voice takes a hold of him and he struggles against the urge to pull out his mobile and call her.

He sighs, and slowly gets in the car for the short drive back to the empty surgery.


	14. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer: The story and characters of Doc Martin belong to Buffalo Pictures. This work of fan fiction is for personal amusement only and no infringement of any legal rights is intended.**

**Thank you to my beta, robspace54, for his thoughtful suggestions and thorough editing. All errors are my own.**

The Consultation 

Chapter 14

The drive from the Butler's farm to the village is a short one, but it gives Martin enough time sort his wayward feelings for his Aunt Joan and the despicable Adrian Pitts into their respective compartments. But he can't seem to push aside the worry he feels for James and Louisa. She sounded exhausted when he spoke with her earlier, stretched thin by the demands of caring for an infant and that blasted mother of hers.

A steady stream of cold rain pelts the windscreen as he pulls into the parking space next to the surgery. He retrieves his medical case and hurries to the back door. On the way, he notices the peeling paint around the window frames and a loose down spout rattling in the wind. Likely the new tenant will want the exterior of the surgery painted, and the ancient plumbing updated as well. He sighs and hopes that this time Chris Parsons has found a GP with a modicum of competence to take his place. A doctor from London, Chris had told him, looking for a different lifestyle. Martin had sneered that if being importune day and night by idiotic villagers was the "different lifestyle" this chap had in mind, then he was in the right place.

The kitchen door sticks when he tries to open it, and he adds this to the list of things that will need attending to before he leaves for London. He closes the door and looks around his tidy kitchen, everything as he left it before going to the hospital this morning. The antique clock on the side board ticks away the seconds and the radiator next to the pantry hisses and splutters. As he unbuttons his coat, he is overtaken with the need to get away from the ticking clock, the tidiness, the oppressive emptiness of his cottage.

He picks up his medical case, and goes back out, slamming the kitchen door behind him. He quickly walks down Roscarrock hill and a cold wind pushes off the harbor as he passes by the Crab, doing a brisk business on this Sunday afternoon. At least the rain has stopped by the time he reaches the cottage that Louisa calls home.

Martin stands at the door and hesitates; maybe he should have called first. His deliberations are cut short when he hears a loud crash coming from inside the cottage.

He tries the door, relieved to find it unlock, and rushes in to find Louisa standing by the kitchen table, a broken plate at her feet. James is safely ensconced in her arms, a startled look on his face, but smiles when he sees his father in the doorway.

"What on earth is going on?" asks Martin. He reaches for James and notices that Louisa is wearing pajamas and her glossy dark hair is tumbling from the clip where James has pulled it loose. He swallows hard and looks down at his son, happily gurgling in his arms.

"The plate slipped from my hand," she says, and starts to carefully walk around the shattered crockery in her bare feet.

"Louisa, don't move. You'll get hurt." Martin deposits James in his travel cot and walks across the kitchen, broken glass crunching underfoot. He gently wraps his arm around her waist and she instinctively places her hands on his broad shoulders. He carries her to safer ground, acutely aware of the curve of her hip under his hand and the heat of her body through the thin fabric of her pajamas. For a moment, he holds on to her, drinking in the scent of her hair and the feel of her body against his. Their eyes meet, and he wants to brush his lips against hers when he hears a floor board creak overhead.

Martin drops his hand from Louisa's waist and takes a step back. Eleanor appears at the foot of the stairs wearing a tattered robe, her frizzy auburn hair pulled into an untidy knot. She grimaces when she sees him and asks Louisa sharply, "What's he doing here?"

"Martin is helping me clean up," replies Louisa, a slow blush creeping up her cheeks. She still feels the warmth of Martin's arms around her and shivers at how strongly her body reacted to his touch. A small voice, the same niggling voice that sometimes keeps her up at night, whispers that he just might want and need her. Don't be foolish, she chides, he was just being helpful, nothing more.

She sighs and asks Eleanor, "Are you feeling better, Mum?"

"A little, thank you." She places a hand on her abdomen and winces.

Martin notices Eleanor's discomfort and says, "You should let me examine you."

"No thanks," she snaps. "I wouldn't let you touch me even if you were the last doctor in England." She pulls the dressing gown in around her and glares at him.

"Suit yourself," he snaps back and stalks off in search of a broom and dust pan.

Eleanor starts up the stairs and says, "I'm going back to bed Loulou." Louisa breathes a sigh of relief at having her mother out of the way. Martin and Eleanor can't seem to be civil to each other, and she's tired of acting as the referee in their disputes. Suddenly she wonders if her mum will be well enough to mind James tomorrow. Mr. Sands, the school superintendent, scheduled a meeting to discuss the budget for next year and it would be in bad form for her to miss it because she doesn't have childcare for James. She could always ask Martin, but he gets snippy when he has to reschedule his consultations.

Before she can ponder this further, James starts to cry, unhappy with his confinement in the travel cot. Louisa picks him up, and tickles his feet until he starts to giggle. Martin superstitiously watches them as he sweeps the broken crockery into the rubbish bin. She is so beautiful, he thinks; holding her in his arms for those few moments had made him realize how much he misses her.

"Martin thanks for coming to see mum today." She smiles at him and he feels his chest tighten.

He throws the last of the broken crockery into the rubbish bin and answers, "Unfortunately, there isn't much I can do since she won't consent to let me examine her."

Martin walks to the sink and sighs. Eleanor is his patient and, as annoying as she is, he has a duty of care to all the patients registered with his surgery. But, he's also here because he needed to see Louisa and James. The surgery seems so empty without them and, to his surprise, he misses the messy kitchen, the baby clothes hanging on every surface, and the little ducks lined up next to the bath. He wishes he could tell her all this, but to what purpose? Louisa had made it perfectly clear she didn't want to have anything to do with him when she moved out of the surgery with James.

He dries his hands and asks, "Would you mind if I took James for a few hours this afternoon?"

"That would be nice, Martin. It'll give me a chance to tidy up," she looks down at her pajamas "and get dressed. And I can get some notes together for James christening. When should I collect him?"

"Five o'clock?" She nods and hands him the baby.

Louisa folds a baby grow and places it in a bright blue shoulder bag. Martin watches her and says, "The vicar called again." He pauses, a worried look on his face. "He wants to know if we chose a godmother for James."

She looks up at him, "I haven't made a decision yet, Martin."

He sighs. "Louisa, it's not your sole decision to make," he drops his voice to a whisper. "You know how I feel about your mother. Ruth would be a much better choice as a godmother to our baby."

She replies testily, "Martin, I'd like to remind you that you've made enough decisions without consulting me to last us both a lifetime."

"What? Are you referring to the date for the christening? You were exhausted, with working too many hours at the school and taking care of James. I was trying not to burden you with needless details."

Louisa looks at him, surprised. "Still, you should have consulted me."

She had been too busy being angry at him to consider that he was trying to be helpful. They look at each other for a moment and Louisa wonders for the hundredth time if leaving him had been a mistake. Then she remembers the rows, the harsh words, the lonely nights. And she is certain that he held her today for no other reason than to get her out of harm's way. She feels tears welling up, and she turns away.

Martin can see she's upset and decides it is best not to say anything more about the christening. He deftly wraps James in his bunting and secures him in the push chair.

Louisa opens the door for them and Martin says, "I'll see you later."

She leans against the closed door and lets the tears come, hot and fast spilling down her cheeks. She's so tired; tired of putting up with her mother, tired from being up most nights with the baby, tired of being alone. She takes a deep jagged breath and tries to calm herself. A hot bath and a chat with Caroline is what she needs. She grabs the phone and quietly climbs the stairs to the bathroom, careful not to wake her mother.

The plumbing creaks and bangs as she switches on the tap to fill the bath. She rummages around for the lavender bath salts given to her by the mother of one of her students- you'll need some pampering once that baby comes, she said. Louisa thanked her, and shrugged. How hard could it be, taking care of a baby? She almost laughs out loud at how clueless she had been then. She gratefully sinks in the hot fragrant bath and picks up the phone to call Caroline.

**To be continued….**


	15. Chapter 15

**Disclaimer: The story and characters of Doc Martin belong to Buffalo Pictures. This work of fan fiction is for personal amusement only and no infringement of any legal rights is intended.**

**Thank you to my beta, robspace54, for the thoughtful suggestions and thorough editing. All errors are my own.**

The Consultation

Chapter 15

Monday morning. The surgery reception is full, every seat taken, and those not fortunate enough to have a place to sit jostle for a spot on the window ledge next to Morwenna's desk. A low hum of muttered discontent and restlessness swirls around the room. The Doc has been called out to attend to old Mr. Sweet who fell on the way to the green grocer to buy his weekly lotto tickets. Yes, the Doc is running behind schedule Morwenna tells a new arrival, so please have a seat if you can find one. Her tone is flat, no smile brightens her face and dark circles occupy the space under her eyes. She worries about Ben, who is still in the High Dependency Unit after his splenectomy yesterday. Kathy reassured Morwenna that he was progressing as well as expected but had said nothing more, she suspects, because Alphia had forbidden the staff to give out information about Ben's condition to anyone who isn't family. She feels a surge of anger towards his despicable mother but it ebbs as quickly as it came, leaving behind the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach that kept her up all night. Kathy said Alphia planned on returning to Dover by the end of the week, and it would be best if Morwenna waited until then to see Ben at hospital. She sighed, and agreed to do as Kathy asked, resigned to the fact she has no say in the matter.

She glances at the clock and wonders what could be keeping him. The front door opens, but it's only Clive Tishell, here to see the Doc about the clot in his leg. He looks around for a place to sit, for his leg pains him if he stands on it for too long, and squeezes in next to a large woman wearing a vibrant yellow and orange dress. Its voluminous folds spills onto the empty chair next to her and she scowls, annoyed at having to shift her wide girth to make room for him. Clive smiles, oblivious to his neighbor's ire, and settles in for the wait.

Finally, Martin strides into the surgery to a general cry of "it's about time!" from the crowd but he ignores them. He slams the consulting room door shut and drops the medical case by his desk. What an inordinate waste of his time, he thinks, his morning surgery interrupted by the elderly Mr. Sweet who should know better than to mix alcohol with prescription medications. At least the idiot hadn't broken anything when he fell. Martin had released him to his daughter's care, admonished her to keep her father away from the lager that appears to be the mainstay of his diet. This goes a long way in explaining Mr. Sweet's frequent visits to the surgery for gout, thinks Martin, brushing loose dirt off his trousers.

Martin takes a deep breath and straightens his tie before calling in his first patient. He walks to Morwenna's desk, and she hands him the first record from a sizeable pile neatly stacked on her desk. "This is the way Dr. Ellingham likes things done," Louisa told Morwenna when she started at the surgery. She misses having Louisa here to chat with, especially now, and even misses the baby, crying and all.

Martin quietly asks, "Can I have a cup of tea, milk no sugar?" Morwenna nods and makes her way to the kitchen. A week ago, she might have told him to get his own tea, but after he saved Ben's life, she would do just about anything for Doc Martin.

"Mrs. Morgan, come through," calls Martin. Clive's neighbor stands but falls back with a small cry.

Her dress is pinned under him but Clive doesn't notice, engrossed in the horse racing broadsheet he brought to pass the time. Maybe a few well placed bets will give him the money to buy the luxurious caravan that his Sally deserves. He feels something under him and looks at the irate face of Mrs. Morgan. "Sorry," he mutters getting up. She jerks the dress loose and sails into the consulting room after Martin.

Martin sits and gestures to the patient chair across from the desk. She carefully seats herself and he looks through her records, frowning. The blood pressure readings taken by the community nurse have not improved despite starting the patient on medication. He sighs.

"You have not been taking the blood pressure medication I prescribed, Mrs. Morgan."

"No, Doc."

Hell, does he want to ask her why not? No, but he does anyway. "And why is that?"

"It's not natural to take pills every day, Doc," she answers primly. "I would rather not take them, if it's all the same to you."

"In that case I suggest you consult a priest and stop wasting my time," he says curtly.

"Why is that, Doc?" she asks, perplexed.

"Because you can look forward to an imminent natural death by stroke or heart attack if you don't get your weight and blood pressure under control." He picks up his pen and starts to make a note in the record, effectively dismissing her. How many times does he have to repeat himself, telling these imbeciles about the life threatening consequences of a poor diet and no exercise? The only thing that makes it bearable is that they soon will no longer be his problem.

She struggles to her feet and says angrily, "I hear the new doctor is a sight better in the bedside manner department then you are. But then, that wouldn't take much, would it?" With that she takes her leave, the folds of her colorful dress flapping like an irate bird of paradise.

Martin slaps her record shut and is again amazed at the capacity of the villagers to glean information and spread it like a virulent strain of flu. He hasn't met the new doctor yet, just knows his name - Carl Borrows - lately of London, married but has no children. They are to meet that afternoon at the solicitor's office and sign the lease to the surgery.

Martin looks around the consulting room and feels a small pang of loss. This is where he had spent most of his waking hours over the past five years, working, reading and repairing his clocks. Now it will be someone else's room, someone else's home. He had been content here; something he never thought would have been possible when he moved from London to the Portwenn. And he had even been happy here for a while, with Louisa and James.

He absently looks at crumbling plaster over the fireplace, something else the new tenant will surely want repaired. Morwenna walks in carrying a steaming cup of tea and carefully places it at his elbow. He grunts his thanks and hands her Mrs. Morgan's notes, but she remains standing next to him.

"Doc?" she says quietly.

"What is it?" he asks impatiently.

"Have you talked to the consultant at the hospital about Ben? I know you're not supposed to tell me anything," She falters, "but his mother doesn't want me involved, and I'm worried sick." She fights back tears and looks at him expectantly.

"No, I haven't." This reminds Martin that he needs to call the hospital and make sure that tosser Pitts hasn't done any irreparable damage to his patient. "I'll tell you what I can."

She nods and ushers in the next patient, a sinus infection followed by a patient with constipation, then diarrhea, and more gout; all getting on his nerves.

He takes a sip of tea and checks his email. There's a message from Robert Dawson, the acting chief at Imperial, informing him that their phone meeting is rescheduled for tomorrow. Martin feels relief mixed with a twinge of anxiety. It hadn't gone well in the operating theater yesterday and he had spent most of the night worrying whether he can perform a simple endarterectomy without making a complete fool of himself. Listening to the new London Baroque CD hadn't helped, and he had finally lain in bed, watching dawn creep across the whitewashed walls of his bedroom.

He switches off his lap top as Clive Tishell limps in, a broad grin on his face.

"How are you Doc?" he asks.

Martin ignores him, looks through his record and mentally groans; deep vein thrombosis, on blood thinners, needs a blood draw.

Clive hops up on the exam couch, and cheerfully says, "Ready Doc."

Martin's mouth is set in grim line as he goes to the supply cart, and picks up a tourniquet. He tightly wraps it around Clive's arm and the veins of his forearm swell, taunt blue ropes against the pallor of his skin. He reaches for a syringe, slips the needle into a vein and Clive winces. The syringe fills, and he feels the warmth of the blood against his hand. He braces for the onslaught of gut wrenching nausea, but nothing happens. He stares, not believing what he's not feeling.

"Doc, you might want to take that thing out of my arm," said Clive anxiously. "How much are you planning to take?"

Martin blinks, pulls out the needle and hastily covers the blood oozing down Clive's arm with a gauze pad. "I'll call you with the results," says Martin, depressing the syringe's plunger, distracted by the blood swirling into the collection tube.

"Ok Doc, but there's something else," said Clive, dabbing at his arm with the blood stained gauze. "Sally, well… she seems off. Maybe it's that hormone thing that women get."

Martin goes to the sink to wash his hands. "I can't discuss your wife's medical conditions with you."

"Can you look into it?" says Clive, sliding off the exam couch.

Martin reviewed Sally Tichell's record after his Aunt Ruth expressed the same kind of concerns and had found nothing out of the ordinary.

"Have her make an appointment," said Martin dismissively, wishing the man out of his consulting room. Clive leaves, and he closes the door.

The vial rests on the cart and he picks it up, watches the blood lazily sway back and forth against the clear glass. Again, he feels nothing, no nausea, sweaty palms, or palpitations. He puts it down and walks to the window overlooking the garden. The beds are fallow at this time of the year but the rhododendron is alive with finches and starlings, and Martin idly watches as they dart around with bright red berries in their beaks.

After Louisa collected James last night, he ate a simple supper of cheese and bread before sitting down for a session with Milligan's CD's. What happened today is good, he thinks with a half-smile on his lips, and possibly listening to the psychobabble is paying off. He certainly feels less anxious about the upcoming phone conference with Imperial. London is his only option; he can't stay in this back water for the rest of his life treating sinus and urinary tract infections. And living close to Louisa, knowing that she doesn't want him is too difficult, worse than when she left Portwenn for London after they cancelled their wedding. He closes his eyes for a moment and leans against the window, remembering the softness of her body against his when he held her yesterday. He shakes his head and the image dissipates like fog in the wind.

There is a sharp knock at the door, and he calls out "Enter." Morwenna pokes her head in. "Your Aunt Ruth is on the phone."

He reaches for the receiver on his desk and says, "Aunt Ruth?"

"Martin, sorry to interrupt but I have a bit of a situation here." She pauses, and he hears someone sobbing in the background. "Delen Butler just died and her husband is beside himself. I think he needs a sedative, but I don't have anything with me. Can come out as soon as possible?"

He sighs. "I'll be there in a half hour to sign the death certificate and with some diazepam."

Morwenna looks at him sadly from the doorway as he hangs up.

"I'm sorry Morwenna." He says in a rare moment of kindness.

She bites her lower lip and asks, "Can I get the afternoon off? Granddad is going to want to go to the Butler's farm to pay his respects."

He cancelled afternoon surgery because of his meeting with the new GP at the solicitors, so it was fine by him. "Just route the calls to my mobile."

She goes to her desk and starts closing the surgery for the day. Martin walks by and asks, "Have you heard anything more about Ben?" She shakes her head and starts to file patient records in the metal cabinet next to her desk.

He'll call Truro on his way to the Butler farm he tells her and goes up to his bedroom. The manila envelope containing the expense spreadsheet for James's care along with documents authorizing the monthly transfer of the rental income from the surgery into Louisa's bank account sits on his bedside table. He picks it up, and turns it over, tangible proof that he is indeed, about to leave Portwenn for good.

To be continued…..


	16. Chapter 16

**Disclaimer: The story and characters of Doc Martin belong to Buffalo Pictures. This work of fan fiction is for personal amusement only and no infringement of any legal rights is intended.**

**Thank you to my beta, robspace54, for the thoughtful suggestions and thorough editing. All errors are my own.**

The Consultation

Chapter 16

The scene that greets Martin at the Butler farm is grim. He can hear John's screams the moment he gets out of the car. In the farmhouse kitchen Ruth, and the Butler's daughter Jenna, try to steer John into a chair but he pulls away, all the while ranting that he has nothing to live for now that his wife is dead. Jenna starts to cry and Ruth shouts over the commotion, "Martin, can you please give him something?"

Martin snaps open his case, draws up a tranquilizer and quickly injects it into John's arm. His screams turn into low pitched moans and they half walk, half drag him to the sofa in the lounge.

Ruth reaches for a blanket to cover John. Martin asks, "Is his wife upstairs?"

"Yes, _Delen_ is upstairs," she answers irritably. Could he make an effort to remember the poor woman's name? At times, she can't abide her nephew's lack of empathy towards his patients.

Ruth feels the sedated man's wrist and says quietly, "He was doing as well as expected until she took her last breath and then he just became unhinged. Jenna called me and I came over as quickly as I could."

Jenna had relied on Ruth over the past week to look in on John and Delen whenever she had to dash off to care for her two children and husband. Ruth was happy to help out, finding Havenhurst rather quiet without Al to banter or play chess with. And the time spent at Delen's bedside had given her a chance to catch up, and say goodbye.

They hear Jenna talking on the phone outside the room. She steps in and looks at Martin. "The undertakers will be here in a half hour." Her eyes are swollen from crying but her voice is steady.

Martin turns to Ruth and says, "I'll go take care of the formalities."

He slowly climbs the stairs. It's quite. There is no sound coming from the sick room now. Martin listens to the dead women's chest and waits for the heartbeat that will never come. He sighs and gently covers her emaciated body. Death always felt like a small failure, but his rational mind knows there is nothing anyone could have done to rid the cancer from Delen's diseased lungs.

He goes looking for Ruth and finds her in the kitchen, talking on the phone. She hangs up and says, "I just spoke with the grief counselor but she won't be here for a few hours. Can you leave a few sedatives, in case John needs them?"

"Yes, of course." He starts to fill out the death certificate and Ruth sits heavily across from him. "This all reminds me of Joan," she says sadly. Martin looks at his aunt but doesn't trust himself to speak. He resumes writing, does his best to push aside the grief that suddenly presses on his chest and crowds his mind.

Ruth wishes they could talk through their mutual grief for Joan, but she knows it's not Martin's way. She suddenly feels restless. "Do you want tea?" she asks, switches on the kettle and takes at teapot from the cupboard.

"No thanks. I have to get to Wadesbridge for a meeting with the solicitor." He signs the certificate and leaves it on the table for the undertakers.

"The solicitor? What for?" Ruth stops fussing with the tea things and gives Martin her full attention.

"The new GP will sign the lease for the surgery and I'm to make the financial arrangements for James care."

He takes a small bottle of tranquilizer tablets out of his case and gives it to Ruth. "One tablet every four to six hours. Call me if he gets worse." He slips on his coat and turns to leave.

"Martin wait." She follows him outside and the feels the damp sea air seep through her thin cardigan. "What exactly are these arrangements you're referring to?"

Martin frowns, irritated that his aunt is pressing him for details about his personal affairs. But then again, it might be best that he tells her about his plans for James; Ruth could take care of any problems that may arise, something that might be difficult for him to do from London.

"If you must know, the rental income from the surgery will go directly to Louisa for James care."

"Have you discussed this with Louisa?"

Martin hesitates before answering, "No, I haven't."

"Do you think that's wise Martin? She is the child's mother. Shouldn't she have a say on how you plan to provide for James?"

He pictures Louisa, angrily throwing that line at him about not wanting to be a kept woman and replies angrily, "What am I supposed to do, watch as my child goes without because Louisa is too proud to accept money from me? We've had row after row about this. Believe me, this is the only way."

"Well, I can't imagine she'll thank you for making these arrangements without consulting her."

He shrugs and drops his medical case in the boot. "It doesn't matter now, does it?"

"Martin," she places a hand on his arm, "I know you love her, but sometimes that's just not enough.

He wants to scream that she's wrong, that it should be enough. But instead he says gruffly, "I better go."

For a moment he wonders if he's delusional, in love with a woman so wrong for him that both his aunts felt the need to warn him away. No, they're the ones that are wrong, he thinks angrily. Louisa is the right for him; he's never been more certain about anything in his life. But he's made a mess of things, and doesn't know how to fix what is broken between them. Blood vessels and clocks are easy compared to the minefield that makes up the landscape of their relationship.

Ruth can see that her words have upset him. "Look, I can see how difficult this is for you but please remember that I'm here if you need to talk." She takes a deep breath. "This might be hard for you to believe but I do care very much for you and James."

Ruth remembers Delen's words spoken from her deathbed on a rainy afternoon- family is the most important thing in the world Ruth, and don't you forget it. She feels a lump in her throat, and wishes tears would come but of course they don't; the blasted Sjogren's syndrome has robbed her of the ability to cry.

Martin wants to get away from his aunts sad gaze and the grieving Butler family. He opens the car door and is about to get in, when a battered pickup truck jostles down the rutted track to the farm yard. It stops next to the Lexus and Morwenna jumps out.

"One of Ben's mates lent us his truck so me and Granddad could come and pay our respects," she says. The elderly Mr. Newcross stumbles out of the truck and Martin places a steadying hand on his arm. "Thanks Doc. The old legs aren't what they use to be. But I'm still around thanks to you." He shakes his head. "But poor Delen was beyond help, I'm afraid."

"It's alright Granddad," said Morwenna, rubbing his arm. She looks at Ruth and asks, "Can you help him in? There's something I want to ask the Doc."

"Come with me, Mr. Newcross." Ruth takes him by the arm and helps him navigate the uneven ground.

Morwenna anxiously turns to Martin. "Have you heard from the hospital? I'm worried sick about Ben."

Martin called Truro on his way to the Butler's farm and left a message for Pitts to call him back. He's about to tell Morwenna this when his mobile rings.

"Ellingham," he answers curtly.

"This is the registrar on Mr. Pitts team, Philip Adler."

"I was expecting a call from Pitts," snaps Martin.

"Well, yes," replies Adler nervously, "but he asked me to call you back about Ben Tulley."

"Why, is he incapable of making a phone call?" snarls Martin. The tosser is avoiding him because of the missed splenic rupture. Not only is Pitts a crap surgeon he's a coward to boot, thinks Martin.

Adler quickly continues before Ellingham starts yelling at him. "He's awake, and doing remarkably well. His blood counts are stable and there's no sign of infection. We plan to transfer him to the ward tomorrow morning, as long as he continues to improve."

"Right. Tell your chief I expect a call from him next time, not one of his subordinates." Martin abruptly ends the call and tells Morwenna an abridged version of Adler's report.

"You mean he'll be out of the high dependency unit tomorrow?" she exclaims, smiling.

"Only if he continues to improve," cautions Martin.

Morwenna takes a deep breath and he can see the tension lift from her shoulders.

"You think I can talk to him on the phone, then?" she asks excitedly

"I don't see why not." Martin gets in the car and switches on the engine.

"Thanks Doc," she waves as he pulls away.

Martin looks in the rearview mirror, and sees Morwenna talking on her mobile as a smile lights up her face.

To be continued….


	17. Chapter 17

**Disclaimer: The story and characters of Doc Martin belong to Buffalo Pictures. This work of fan fiction is for personal amusement only and no infringement of any legal rights is intended.**

**Thank you to my beta, robspace54, for the thoughtful suggestions and thorough editing. All errors are my own.**

The Consultation 

Chapter 17

Martin is late for his appointment with the solicitor. The call at the Butler's farm had taken longer than expected and now there's a herd of cattle blocking the road into Wadebridge. They stare impassively with their gentle bovine eyes while he seethes at the delay. He's about to get out of the car and try to move them along when the farmer saunters along and, without a word of apology, waves the cattle off the road. Imbecile, thinks Martin as he guns the car pass the farmer who in turn gives him a dirty look.

Farms change over to clusters of townhouses and shops. He almost misses the turn into the town center, his mind preoccupied by the conversation he had with Ruth at the Butler's farm. He cannot see a way around his concern that Louisa may, out of hand, reject his help of financial assistance, other than to make the arrangements and tell her about them after the fact. As Ruth pointed out, Louisa will undoubtedly be angry. Martin recalls very well how upset she had been when he chose a date for the christening without first consulting her. That memory and what came after sits in the pit of his stomach like a ton of bricks.

The narrow Wadebridge streets are thick with traffic but he luckily finds a parking spot a few doors away from the solicitor's office. Martin quickly walks along the busy side walk, dodging shoppers coming in and out of the storefronts lining the thoroughfare.

He steps aside to let a pretty blond woman wheel a pushchair past a cluster of giggling teenagers. The baby, blonde hair like his mother and a few months older then James, happily chews on a teething ring. Martin never paid much attention to children unless they required medical attention. He used to think of them as loud and demanding, a nuisance best left for others to nurture into the next generation of adults. But when James was born, he found himself caring for his child with a depth of feeling that

astounded him. He now wonders which of James milestones he will miss separated from his son by three hundred long miles; it's very likely James will say his first words and take his first steps without his father to cheer him on.

He thoughtfully watches mother and baby for a moment, then hurries up the street. The solicitor's office is on the ground floor of a grey stone building adjacent to a travel agency specializing in caravan holidays. The sign on the glossy black door proudly announces the office of Blake and Chislom, Solicitors.

Martin was here five years ago to sign papers for the purchase of the surgery from the late Dr. Syms's estate. He shudders at the state the surgery had been in then; clogged drains, faulty wiring, and the appalling filth. Evidently, Dr. Syms hadn't bothered with basic hygiene or for that matter, proper medical care for his patients. Hopefully the next GP will be a step up from both his predecessor and the woefully inadequate Dr. Dibbs.

The reception is empty except for a white cat curled up on the chesterfield. Disease ridden animals, thinks Martin as he stands impatiently, waiting for someone to come out and greet him. Instead, he hears a man's angry voice coming from one of the offices adjacent to the reception area.

"The headmaster called to say you've lost your arithmetic book, again. I really don't understand how you can be so careless."

A soft and tremulous voice answers but Martin cannot make out what is being said.

"I'm embarrassed to call you my son," the man snapped. "Go upstairs and no supper for you."

A boy of about eight runs out of the office wearing a school uniform, tie askew and shoes scuffed, clenching a satchel in one hand. He stops in his tracks, startled by Martin's presence. The boy holds the strangers gaze for a moment. The realization that this man understands how shamed and hurt he is by his father's words slowly trickles through him, and he soaks it in like a sapling parched for water.

A short, balding man comes rushing out and snarls, "I told you to go upstairs."

The boy gives Martin one last look and scampers up the stairs. The white tabby stretches languidly, jumps off the chesterfield and chases after the boy.

Martin turns to the man. "Was that necessary?"

"Ah, you must be Dr. Ellingham. Spare the rod, spoil the child as the saying goes. You'll soon find out, as your little one gets older." He takes a step forward and Martin looks down at him disparagingly. "I'm Andrew Chislom. You met with my associate a few years back but he's sadly shuffled off the proverbial mortal coil." He leans forward and whispers as if divulging a state secret, "Cancer of the prostate. Mercifully, he went quickly." Martin uncharitably thinks the poor man was probably happy to die to get away from the likes of Andrew Chislom.

The front door opens and a stocky but fit man in his thirties comes through wearing jeans, a plaid flannel shirt and hiking boots. He smiles at both men and opens his mouth to speak but the loquacious solicitor beats him to it.

"Dr. Borrows! Good timing. We were just about to get started. This is Dr. Ellingham from the Portwenn surgery. Well, not for much longer, of course."

Carl Borrows reaches to shake Martin's hand. "Pleasure to meet you, Martin. Heard a lot about you from the GP's here in Wadebridge."

Martin frowns and blurts out, "You're American!"

Carl drops his hand and answers with a nervous laugh, "I guess the accent gave it away. Is that a problem? I mean that I'm American?"

The new GP's attire and informal manner of speech reinforces Martin's view that American's have no regard for social niceties or the proper use of the English language. For some reason, this reminds him of Edith, who insisted on watching an inordinate amount of American television in what she called her

"cultural immersion research project" before moving to Montreal all those years ago. Martin had drily informed her that Montreal was in Canada, not America but she had shushed him and kept on watching. After a few minutes of listening to the incomprehensible jargon and inane story lines, he took his leave. Edith was so engrossed in the drivel flashing on the screen that she didn't notice his absence until a few hours later, when she would call requesting his presence in her bed.

Martin mentally shakes _that _memory out of his head and answers, "The villagers may not take kindly to a foreign doctor."

Andrew quickly says, "Dr. Borrows trained at John Hopkins. He's very well qualified, I'd say."

"Well, I've been a GP in Ealing for the past year. My wife grew up in Wadebridge and we felt it would be best if she lived close to her family."

"Should we get the formalities over with, then?" said Andrew, ushering both men into his office.

The solicitor duly reviews the lease and both doctors sign without exchanging a word. Martin is relieved that the new GP isn't asking for improvements to the surgery. Most foreigners are put off by the unreliable plumbing in the drafty Cornwall cottages but this man either doesn't know or care about such things.

Carl puts down his pen and turns to Martin, "I thought we could get a pint at the local pub to seal the deal, so to speak. And I could use some advice on how to run a small village surgery."

Martin stands up and says tersely, "I have to get back."

He leaves the office and Andrew follows him to the front door. "Dr. Ellingham! Didn't you want to go over the financial arrangements for your son's care?"

"No. I've changed my mind." He looks at Andrew Chislom with undisguised contempt. "I will also be looking for another solicitor. Good day."

The solicitor is left speechless as Martin walks briskly down the street to his car.

XXXX

The shadows lengthen across the moor and a strong wind blows off the sea, forcing Martin to hold on tight to the steering wheel. He wants to speak with Louisa as soon as he gets into Portwenn but recalls she has a meeting with the school council that evening. He sighs; what he has to say to her will have to keep until tomorrow.

The half hour drive into Portwenn is uneventful, without errant livestock to hold him up. Martin leaves the car next to the surgery and walks first to the fishmonger to purchase cod for his supper then to the cobbler to collect a pair of shoes he had resole.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a group of teenage girls and does a double take when he notices one girl in the pack pushing a buggy that looks suspiciously like the one he bought James a few weeks ago. He starts to run, but loses sight of her and the buggy at a bend in the narrow roadway. He shakes his head and wonders if he might be imagining things. It has been a long day, with a busy morning surgery, the house call at the Butler's farm and the meeting at the solicitors in the afternoon. He's tired and wants his supper before reading the latest BMJ before bed.

Martin walks up Roscarrock hill and sees Morwenna coming the other way. She smiles at him and says, "Forgot my handbag at my desk when I closed up the surgery at lunch time today." She holds up a yellow and green garish affair studded with fake jewels that sparkle in the waning light. Martin grunts something unintelligible and makes to continue on his way.

"Wait Doc!" exclaimed Morwenna. "I'm on my way to see Ben at hospital. Kathy, you remember her? The nurse in the high dependency unit? Well Ben asked her to tell me that he's being moved to the wards tonight and that his mother left for Dover this afternoon. Between you and me, that woman is just horrible. Oh, I almost forgot! Dr. Ellingham, I mean your aunt Dr. Ellingham asked me to tell you that John Butler is doing better but he did need one sedative tablet this afternoon."

Martin marvels at the amount of words Morwenna can string together without taking a breath. He looks at her pupils and thankfully sees they are not dilated. No amphetamines then, just an excitable teenage girl on the way to see her boyfriend.

"Don't be late for work tomorrow!" Martin yells as she runs down the hill.

He trudges the last few feet up to the surgery to have his solitary meal and lay in bed, with only his journals to keep him company.

To be continued…


	18. Chapter 18

**Disclaimer: The story and characters of Doc Martin belong to Buffalo Pictures. This work of fan fiction is for personal amusement only and no infringement of any legal rights is intended**.

The Consultation

Chapter 18

Martin neatly places the last dish in the drying rack and wipes down the counters. James watches his father from the pushchair. "Almost done," says Martin as he hangs the tea towel to dry on the hook next to the sink.

The music from the Spanish theme night at the Large's restaurant continues to waft through the closed windows and he irritably wonders why Bert as yet to switch it off. Not that Bert or any of the villagers ever listened to him. He has made himself hoarse, telling them over and over again about the importance of basic hygiene. Yet, they won't wash their hands after using the lavatory or avoid sneezing and coughing in each other faces. Well soon enough, none of this will be his problem.

James starts to grizzle and threatens to launch into a full throttle cry. A quick look through the nappy bag reveals a bottle of breast milk in a cool pack. Martin pops it in the bottle warmer before sitting on the lounge sofa with the baby. "Here you are," he says soothingly as James takes the bottle with a small sigh of contentment.

Martin rests against the back of the sofa and his gaze falls on the stapled sheets of recycled construction paper with Louisa's neat handwritten notes for James christening. He dropped them on the coffee table after her visit to the surgery that morning with the intention of reading through them at lunch, but there had been no time. He reaches for sheets with his free hand and quickly scans through them, noticing that Roger Fenn and Chris Parson are listed as godfathers but there is no name written under the heading of godmother.

This offers him a modicum of hope. He can't imagine that Louisa will continue to entertain the idea that her mother is a suitable godmother to their child, not after what she did today. Without question, his Aunt Ruth is better suited; he has every confidence that his aunt wouldn't subcontract James's care to a teenage delinquent or put alcohol in his bottle. But he worries that Louisa might disagree with him. She doesn't always see Eleanor for what she is, a manipulative, self-centered drugged up harpy. Well that might be a little harsh, he thinks, but it's not so far from the truth. Aside from her irresponsible behavior with their son, Eleanor had left her young daughter in Terry Glasson's questionable care to follow her bliss and live in Spain with her lover. His own mother had done the same, he thinks ruefully, but at least she had the decency to wait until he was an adult to exchange his father for a Portuguese lover.

James starts to squirm and Martin places him against his shoulder. A few will placed taps on the baby's back and he is rewarded with a loud belch. "That's better," said Martin. He gently strokes the baby's head, and frets that something terrible will happen to James at Eleanor's hand when he's no longer here to keep an eye on him. He suddenly sees the world as a place filled with unknown threats, and feels a fierce need to protect his son from harm.

This takes him by surprise, never having felt this way towards anyone in his life. He wonders if his parents ever felt this way about him and with a small pang of sadness, he is certain they never did. Just like the solicitor yesterday, his parents saw him as a nuisance to be shamed in submission, not as a child that needed love and protection. The look of shame and hurt in the solicitor's son's eyes is one he never wants to see in James. With a sigh of relief, he realizes that he's not like his father, nor his mother for that matter.

The unmistakable odor of wet nappy fills his nose and he holds James at arm's length. "Time for a nappy change, young man." He can't imagine his father changing a nappy. They had nannies for that in the Ellingham household, of course. Well, he never thought he would be changing nappies or be a father, if truth be told, but he found the small acts of caring for his son deeply satisfying.

Martin lays the squirming baby on the changing mat and pulls down the changing supplies from the shelf above the washer. He deftly secures a clean nappy and snaps on a freshly laundered baby grow with little wooly sheep scattered playfully across the front. Louisa seems to like James's clothing to have barn animals or other such nonsense printed on them, while he prefers solids in gender appropriate colors. Louisa had told him that was very dull, as dull as the brilliant white he chose for the flat in London. It had taken a few minutes before it sunk in that she was annoyed with him, but he had said nothing, wishing to avoid a confrontation.

But he had very much wanted a confrontation with Louisa this morning. He stormed into the school with James, angry with Eleanor for thoughtlessly handing off their baby to Angie Grappie. He needed Louisa to see how upset he was by her mother's actions, and as they stood outside her class room, the encounter quickly deteriorated into a screaming match. It ended when Louisa snapped that his move to London clearly shows he has little regard for their child and he stomped off in a huff, angered and hurt by her words.

He briskly walked back to the surgery and tried to calm himself. Louisa has a way of getting to him like no one else could, and he knew that her words would keep niggling at him, like a splinter caught under his skin.

James squeals and Martin scoops him off the changing mat. "How can your mummy say I don't care for you," he murmurs, holding the baby against his chest.

Martin walks into the kitchen when he hears a series of loud knocks at the front door. He groans and hopes it's nothing urgent; Eleanor Glasson's strangulated hernia surgery was enough of an emergency for one day. He carries James through the reception and pulls the door open. PC Penhale stands at his door step, thumbs tucked self- importantly into his utility belt.

"What do you want?" asks Martin curtly.

"Doc! Just checking that your little one is alright. I heard about the whole thing with Angie Grappie from Morwenna."

Of course he did, thinks Martin wearily. His business was everyone else's business in this bloody village.

"Yes, he's fine," answered Martin, impatient for him to be gone.

"Angie's a good kid, Doc. You know, bad family situation that made her fall in with the wrong crowd. Anyway she's not serving community time because of child endangerment of anything like that."

"How reassuring."

"I'd say so Doc," said Penhale, oblivious to Martin's sarcasm. "No big crime here. Just a spot of shop lifting. Anyway, I told her to stay away from your baby."

"Good," said Martin and is about to shut the door when the music at the Large's restaurant increases by a few decibels. "Can you ask them to switch that off? I have to get my baby to sleep."

"No can do, Doc. Not until nine o'clock anyway, then I can cite them for disturbing the peace," Penhale answers hopefully and glances down the hill towards the restaurant.

"Thanks for nothing," mutters Martin and firmly shuts the door to the surgery.

He switches off the lights in the reception on his way to the lounge and settles on the sofa with James on his lap. Martin tries to cover him with the blanket, but his little hands and feet wave up and down like an off kilter wind mill. He catches a small hand in his large one, and marvels at its perfection. "Maybe you'll be a surgeon like your daddy one day," he says, a half smile on his lips.

It felt good to hold a scalpel again, even though he hadn't imagined doing his first surgery in over five years in a consulting room assisted by his teenage receptionist. Regardless, it had gone well. He saved Eleanor's miserable bowel and life without any major signs of a panic attack. The blood pooling around the incision had made him queasy, but this passed with a few steadying breaths. His effort with the desensitizing therapy is paying off and he feels a new confidence in his ability to perform the complex vascular cases once he gets to Imperial. Today's phone meeting with the interim chief had gone well, and he feels a small stir of excitement at the prospect of operating again. The only catch is that Louisa and James will not be with him in London.

James eyes start to droop with sleep and Martin nestles him in the crook of his arm. He pulls a blanket over the sleeping baby and gently nuzzles the top of his downy head. He will miss this, when he's in London. He will visit of course, but it just won't be same as seeing James every day.

Martin leans his head against the sofa and the warmth of the baby in his arms slowly lulls him into sleep. As he feels himself floating in the twilight space between wakefulness and oblivion, he imagines his Aunt Joan standing across the room. She smiles at them, and he knows she would have loved James just as much as he does.

He doesn't hear the knock on the window pane or the kitchen door creaking open. Louisa comes in and stumbles in the dark before her hand finds the lamp on the kitchen sideboard. She switches it on, and the light casts a soft glow over the sleeping father and child.

Her breath catches in her chest and she feels tears prick behind her eyes. She so wants to curl up next to Martin and their baby, pretend they are a family, if only for a few moments. Don't be a fool, she tells herself but continues to stare until she can no longer see for the tears spilling down her cheeks.

To be continued….


	19. Chapter 19

**Disclaimer: The story and characters of Doc Martin belong to Buffalo Pictures. This work of fan fiction is for personal amusement only and no infringement of any legal rights is intended.**

The Consultation

Chapter 19

"Louisa?" said Martin sleepily. He struggles to sit up without waking the baby as she rummages in her hand bag for a tissue to wipe the tears slowly trickling down her cheeks.

"Is something wrong?" he asks, peering at her in the dim light. Louisa gives up trying to find a tissue amongst the pens, loose change and baby toys that clutter her bag and answers, "I have to use the loo. Back in a minute."

Martin is about to say something, but Louisa is already halfway to the lavatory off the reception. She firmly closes the door and looks at her reflection in the mirror over the sink. Her hair has slipped loose from its pony tail and her makeup has run into dark smudges under her eyes. She dabs at the mess with a wet paper towel and takes a deep breath in an effort to calm herself.

The sight of Martin asleep with their baby nestled in his arms had completely undone her, helped along nicely with the second glass of wind she had at Bert's restaurant. She grimaces at her reflection and tosses the towel in the rubbish bin. She hasn't been able to keep her emotions in check since leaving Martin; either she's a tearful mess or lashes out in anger as she did today when he came to the school and told her that Eleanor farmed out James to a teenager sporting an ankle tag. She imagines all the things that could have happened to James under the girl's care, and she shudders in horror.

Louisa can hear Martin moving around in the kitchen. She splashes cool water on her face and decides it would best if she bundled up James and left as quickly as possible.

She quietly walks into the kitchen to find Martin at the sink, filling the tea kettle with water from the tap. James is asleep in his pushchair, snuggly wrapped in the blue and white blanket given to him by his

Great Aunt Ruth shortly after she moved into Havenhurst. She has since showered James with gifts bought during her frequent trips to London. The latest was the complete collection of Beatrix Potter, which had delighted Louisa but left Martin to wonder about the educational benefits of children's books featuring garrulous rabbits and mice. Louisa ignored him and fingered the books with care, wishing someone had been thoughtful enough to give her gifts such as these when she was a child.

She reaches for the nappy bag and says, "I'll be on my way. Thanks for minding James."

"Louisa, can you stay? There are a few things we need to discuss." He stiffly waves to one of the kitchen table chairs. She sits, and suddenly her limbs feel heavy and tired. Her head is starting to ache and she knows she will regret that second glass of wine come morning.

She lets her eyes wander around the familiar kitchen and they come to rest on Martin, who is carrying two cups from the sideboard to the counter. He has taken off his suit coat, and she gazes at his back and broad shoulders as he switches off the kettle and spoons loose tea into the light blue ceramic teapot that belonged to his Aunt Joan.

Shortly after their engagement, Martin told Louisa that his nanny taught him how to make a proper cup of tea. This had made her feel sad; neither of them had the type of mother who took an interest in their children, let alone taught them how to make tea. Thankfully, James has a mummy who will teach him how to tie his shoe laces and ride a bike and make tea, if it came to that. Louisa wonders if Martin has any idea what he will be missing by living in London. Tears threaten again, and she presses the fingernails of one hand into her palm to stop them from spilling over.

Martin places two steaming cups of tea on the well-scrubbed table. She gratefully takes a sip, and he takes notice of how pale and tired she looks.

"Have you had an iron serum drawn recently? With your history of anemia and recent child birth you need to be followed closely," he says, sitting down across from her.

"Dr. Bates has it hand, Martin." At her request, he had reluctantly referred her to a colleague in Wadebridge after James's birth. Louisa didn't think it was a good idea for Martin to be her GP, and he had agreed on principal, but disliked having someone else manage Louisa's and the baby's care.

"I plan to register here when the new GP starts. Have you met him yet?" she asks.

"Yes." He pauses. "You know he's American?"

"Martin, you make it sound as if he's from Mars," she smiles. "From what I've heard, he's well qualified and very nice. Actually, I went to secondary school with his wife. She grew up in Truro, then read human biology at Cambridge and was accepted at John Hopkins to do post graduate on Parkinson's disease. That's where she and her husband met."

"Well, she'll find the neuroscience research department at Truro Hospital rather unsatisfactory," he says derisively.

She sighs and says, "You didn't ask me to stay so we could discuss my health or the new GP and his wife." Her head still hurts and she needs to get some sleep or it will be a long day at school tomorrow.

He places one hand on the table and nervously fiddles with the teaspoon lying next to his cup with the other. "Have you given some thought to who you think should be James's godmother?" he asks.

Louisa takes another sip of tea and knows she can't possibly make a case for her mother now, not after she gave their baby to Port Wenn's juvenile delinquent for safe keeping. Angie Grappie has always been a problem, going back to when she was a pupil at Port Wenn primary. Louisa recalls how the little terror had instigated a food fight of epic proportions in the dinner hall that caused Mr. Coley to mutter for weeks that the general decline in civility did not bode well for Britain's future.

"I was undecided but after today…." She trails off and looks at James, sleeping peacefully in his pushchair.

"So, you agree that Ruth should be his godmother?" Martin asks, eyeing her expectantly.

"I suppose it would be for the best," Louisa answers, feeling dejected. For a short while, she almost believed that Eleanor came to Portwenn to make amends for the missed birthdays, graduations and other events that marked Louisa's formative years. But it quickly became apparent that her mother hasn't changed one bit. Eleanor only cares about herself, thinks Louisa bitterly, and always will.

"Well, that's settled," Martin said quickly and Louisa notices some of the tension has eased from his shoulders, but his hands are poised on the table top, as if he's bracing himself against a storm that is yet to come.

"Is there anything else? I really should be going," she says, but makes no move to leave. Her tea is cold, but she drinks it anyway.

"We should go over some financial practicalities." He presses his lips together and continues, "Before I leave for London." Suddenly, he feels a low grade level of despair settle in his chest, like a damp and musty cloak.

"I assumed you would give me the spreadsheet with the post-dated cheques." Louisa pauses before adding, "Like before."

She remembers the day Martin gave her the thick manila envelope in the school yard before the baby was born. It was only when she felt the heft of the envelope in her hand did she realize that she was going to have and raise this child on her own. The baby had chosen that moment to kick, and she had gently rubbed her swollen belly in an effort to reassure them both that everything would be alright.

"Well yes. But in addition, I want the rental income from the surgery to go to you for James care."

"Martin, I can't accept that. That must come to about three thousand pounds a month!"

"I don't want either of you to want for anything," Martin says quietly. "I'm going to make the arrangements with a solicitor before I leave next week." He wasn't going back to that tosser in Wadebridge, not after the way he treated his son.

"So you've made up your mind." She leans back in her chair and looks at him thoughtfully. "At least you told me about your plans before meeting with the solicitor." He turns away but not before she sees a flicker of discomfort in his eyes.

"You weren't going to tell me, were you?" she said incredulously. She gets up and reaches for her handbag. "You can't throw money at us to assuage your guilt, Martin."

"But it's not like that!" he exclaims. "And I wouldn't have to do this if you agreed to come with me to London."

She whirls around and hisses, "I can't. Not with the way things stand between us."

"I don't understand. I'm offering to take care of you and James. What more do you want, Louisa?" he retorts angrily.

"For you to tell me…" Louisa swallows a sob and turns away before he can see the tears pooling in her eyes. She wheels James's pushchair to the door. Martin silently opens it for her, and she can read the consternation on his face, but she walks out without saying another word.

Louisa can sense his gaze following her down Roscarrock hill but she doesn't dare look back. If she had, she would have seen the forlorn figure of the man she loves cast against the moon lit Cornwall sky.

To be continued….


	20. Chapter 20

**Disclaimer: The story and characters of Doc Martin belong to Buffalo Pictures. This work of fan fiction is for personal amusement only and no infringement of any legal rights is intended.**

The Consultation

Chapter 20

Louisa stands on the Platt, empty at this hour of the night. The wind blows lightly across her face and ruffles the water's surface, causing the reflected moonlight to scatter in the waves. She places one hand on the pushchair and starts to gently rock it back and forth, as much to sooth herself as the sleeping baby. A few minutes goes by, maybe more, she's not certain. It's always like this after a row with Martin; anger quickly followed by the sense of having failed to grasp something within her reach, like the bronze ring in the old fashion carousel her father sometimes took her to when she was a child.

She leans over the pushchair and tucks the blanket tighter around the sleeping baby. Her gaze lingers on his face, flushed with sleep and whispers, "You look so like Martin_." _She feels she could cry, but doesn't. Instead, she wheels the pushchair to one of the benches facing the harbor and sits on the hard wood slats. Her head doesn't ache as much, but her arms and legs feel leaden with fatigue. A night heron silently flies over the flat expanse of sand, its wings moving with a slow and steady beat in the night light cast by the moon. She idly watches it disappear over the school, as it heads for its feeding ground further up the coast.

"That's a nice sight." Louisa shifts on the bench and sees Al Large standing behind her. He comes around and sits, his face creased in a grin. "Didn't mean to scare you. I like the herons, but dad thinks the little buggers eat all the fish out of his favorite pond. It's more like he's rubbish with a fishing rod."

Louisa smiles and says, "I didn't expect to see you down here."

"I needed some fresh air, after working the crowds at the restaurant. Dad said your mum came up with the idea for the Spanish night." He takes a deep breath, and leans back against the bench. "Too bad she had to miss it."

Louisa gives him a sharp look and says, "I know you don't mean that. You Large boys never liked Mum, or my dad for that matter."

After Eleanor left for Spain, leaving behind eleven year old Louisa, Bert would come by the Glasson cottage, and more often than not find her alone, Terry having gone to the race track or the pub to spend the little money they had. He would take Louisa home and give her, along with one year old Al, their tea. It became a routine of sorts, and she often minded Al while Bert went out on plumbing calls around the village. Later, Louisa wondered if she became a teacher because of these afternoons with Al at her knee; she has fond memories of reading to Al and teaching him his numbers in the cozy but messy cottage the Large's called home.

He shakes his head. "My mum died, yours just left. That wasn't right." He gazes at the surf gently breaking on the beach below them. "Dad was desperate, to let the likes of Eleanor help him out the way he did."

To his surprise, Louisa starts to giggle. "Mum carried on and on from her hospital bed how she singlehandedly saved the restaurant. I get the feeling your dad would have something to say about that."

"Maybe," said Al cautiously. He keeps quiet about the money he stole from Ruth to pay off the pair of loan sharks his father borrowed from to save the restaurant. His deceit was the source of significant remorse, and he developed insomnia and an itchy rash that the Doc said was brought on by stress. He hadn't expected Ruth to forgive him but she had, even offered to take him back as manager of Havenhurst. Over a glass of wine, they agreed he would be given half his salary until the purloined money was paid in full. Then Ruth smiled mischievously, and said she expects him to play chess whenever she fancies it, and he is to let her win, at least some of time.

"What are you smiling about?" asks Louisa. He didn't realize he was, and deflects her question by asking, "Did you see Ben Tulley when you visited your mum at hospital?"

Al shared a few pints at the Crab with the lifeboat helmsman and found they liked the same kind of music; Morwenna had rolled her eyes as the men launched into an animated and lengthy discussion about the merits of various indie bands.

"He's a good bloke. Bad luck, with that accident," Al says, and shudders at the image of Ben's body, mangled and lifeless, after he was hit by a lorry a few yards away from where they sit.

"Yes, he is on the same floor as Mum. He looks well, considering everything he's been through. Apparently his mother wants him to convalescence at the family home in Devon, but he wants to come back here, so he can be close to Morwenna."

"That's nice for them," said Al and then lapses into silence. By the look on his face, Louisa suspects he's thinking about Pauline. She asks, "Have you heard from her?"

"Pauline?" He shakes his head. "Not recently. She started a nursing course in Bristol and said she might work in Truro when she's done, but I'm not holding my breath." He pauses. "She asked about you and Doc Ellingham."

Louisa leans over and gently strokes the sleeping baby's cheek. "There's not much to tell."

"Don't know about that, Louisa. He's put you and the bairn through a lot."

"He means well, Al."

"He could have fooled me and the rest of the village, leaving you here to raise the little one on your own." A note of anger creeps into his voice and Louisa feels herself bristle at the accusation.

"I'm the one who's choosing not to follow him to London. And he's being very generous with the financial support for the baby." Here I am, defending Martin again, she thinks irritably.

"Come off it, Louisa," said Al bluntly. "Money's nice but it isn't fair to the little one to be raised by only one parent. He could stay here if he wanted. Maybe even make it work between the two of you."

She gazes at the soft swell of the waves glittering in the moon light and feels the tears she's manage to keep at bay prick behind her eyes. "No. It's not going to work. Not unless…."

Not unless what, Louisa? He says he loves you? Would that make the rows, the tears, the pain of the last few months disappear like they never happened? She's filled with rage and wants to scream to hell with him, but she slumps against the bench in exhaustion. Lovely this motherhood thing, she thinks wearily, I don't even have enough energy for a good rant.

Al notices how tired she looks, and is about to offer to walk her home when Buddy comes bounding up the slipway. He barks once and circles around the bench before jumping on Al's lap.

"Hey there," he said, scratching the little dog's head. Louisa springs up and pushes the baby's pram away from the dog. "Come on, Louisa. He doesn't have the plague."

She eyes the dog suspiciously and says, "I should be going."

He looks at her thoughtfully. "Friends? I can't have my old baby sitter peeved off at me."

"Okay." Louisa points the pushchair towards Mr. Rutledge's cottage.

"I'm here if you need, well anything. I mean it, Louisa."

A smile plays on her lips and lights up her eyes. "The boiler is acting up again."

He gives her a lopsided grin. "Consider it done."

Al watches until she disappears up the hill, towards her cottage.

He sighs. "It's no good being alone, Buddy."

The little dog jumps off Al's lap, and looks at the man who carries the earthy scent of home. He tilts his head and barks; he wants to go for a ride in the basket attached to the side of the man's scooter. It's one of his favorite things to do and his nose twitches in anticipation of the smells carried on the wind, a sensory feast for the canine senses.

"Come on Buddy, let's get you home." He scoops up the little dog. "Good time as any for a game of chess with your mistress."

To be continued….

**Authors Note**

**I wish to thank GriffinStar for kindly answering my questions about the meal time nomenclature used in Britain. In this chapter, Bert gives a young Al and Louisa their tea, which refers to a meal given to children around five in the afternoon. The adults eat their dinner or supper in the early evening, possibly after the children have gone to bed. As most of you know, tea also refers to a light mid-afternoon meal of savory and sweet treats accompanied of course by, tea!**


	21. Chapter 21

**Disclaimer: The story and characters of Doc Martin belong to Buffalo Pictures. This work of fan fiction is for personal amusement only and no infringement of any legal rights is intended.**

The Consultation

Chapter 21

The small church echoes with last strains of the closing hymn for Delen Butler's funeral service. The pall- bearers slowly raise the casket from its resting place on the trestles, and as they walk towards the nave, it gently sways with their every step like a sad lullaby to the dead. Mourners file behind the casket, and exit the church to a sodden landscape of grey skies and a bone chilling drizzle. They pause to open their umbrellas, and then walk along the gravel path leading to the churchyard gate.

An ancient stone wall shelters the burial ground from the wind and churning sea. Slate markers darken by the rain punctuate the uneven terrain covered with gorse and moss, each a testament to the tragedies that claimed the lives of generations of Port Wenn men, women and children.

Ruth pulls on her rain coat hood, and follows the Butler family to the grave site. Jenna, the Butler's daughter, holds her father's arm as he walks with small, faltering steps towards the open grave. He appears bewildered, like someone who just awoke to find himself in a strange and alien place.

After the initial shock of his wife's death had worn of, John had disappeared into himself, leaving behind an unkempt shell that barely resembled the man he once was. Never gregarious, he defaulted to silently wander about the farmhouse wrapped in a natty robe, unshaved and in need of a bath.

This is how Ruth found him this morning, and she had sent him upstairs to dress while she tidied up and made him breakfast. As John shuffled off, Ruth wondered if fate had been kind when her few relationships fizzled into nothingness under the growing threat of matrimony.

Ruth gazes at Jenna's husband, Brent, who hurries towards the assembled mourners with their two young sons in tow. The boys fidget in their stiff new clothes, and the youngest starts to whimper, alarmed by the unfamiliar people and surroundings.

Before James Henry came into her life, Ruth would have frowned at such a display of ill manners, and would have found blame with the parents for not being strict enough with their children. But now, she smiles benevolently as Morwenna Newcross leans over to whisper something in the child's ear and he stops crying when she slips a hard boiled sweet into his fisted hand. Her usual flamboyant attire is replaced by a black skirt and dark green pullover covered by a too large trench coat, which makes Ruth think it was borrowed for the occasion.

The elderly Mr. Newcross stands next to his granddaughter, and stares with rheumy eyes as his cousin's casket. A deep ache settles in his chest at the memory of having buried his wife and daughter in this very churchyard and he slips his weathered hand into his granddaughter's strong one; she senses his distress and gently leans against him.

Al and Bert Large stand a little ways behind the Newcross' and Ruth makes her way to them, her sensible laced up shoes squelching in the wet grass.

"Hello there Ruth. Not a bad turn out," says Bert, shifting his umbrella in an effort to protect his rather large girth from the rain.

"Dad, it's not a party," said Al sharply.

"Of course not, son. But it's good for business." He turns to Ruth. "The Butler's asked us to cater the funeral repast. We arrived early and set up in the church hall. Looks nice, if I say so myself."

Ruth is about to thank Al again for bringing Buddy home last night, but the vicar silences the mourners by moving to the head of the grave, a prayer book in his hands.

"We are assembled here to commit Delen Butler's body into sacred ground."

Ruth cranes her neck to get a better look at the vicar. Something about him looks familiar, and she probed the recesses of her mind when she first saw him in the church, but for the life of her couldn't recall when or where she has seen him. She now surreptitious stares at his short crop gray hair, aquiline nose or deep brown eyes in hopes of jostling her memory, but to no avail.

She shifts her attention to the service as the vicar reads, in a soft baritone, the timeless words meant to sooth the grieving soul, "Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear sister here departed, we therefore commit her body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in the sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life…"

The vicar is interrupted by a collective gasp from the mourner's as John Butler collapses next to his wife's grave. Ruth pushes her way through the crowd and is relieved to see that he is conscious, but his skin has taken on an unhealthy hue and his breathing is labored. Jenna is leaning over her father, a look of panicked concern on her face. John is whispering something to her, and she shakes her head as Ruth arrives at their side.

"He wants the service to go on, but I don't think he's at all well," she says anxiously.

Ruth takes his wrist and feels his pulse, steady and strong under her fingers. He breathes a little easier, and color has returned to his pallid cheeks. The vicar comes around and says gently, "You have done everything you could do for your wife. Now it's time for you to take care of yourself. Why don't you go inside for a cup of tea?"

With the help of his son-in-law, John slow walks along the uneven path and into the church. Ruth follows them, and takes out her mobile to call her nephew's surgery. To her surprise, the phone rings six, now seven times without an answer and she is about to disconnect the call when Martin answers.

"Martin, its Ruth. I didn't think you were in."

"It's chaos here. My receptionist has taken herself off somewhere and now I'm expected to answer the telephone in addition to seeing patients," he answers irritably.

Considering the mood he's in, she thinks it's best to quickly tell him the reason for her call. "John Butler collapsed at his wife's funeral. He seems to have recovered, but I would feel better if you could take a look at him."

"I can't leave the surgery. He'll have to come here. Unless you think he needs to go to hospital."

"No, I don't think that's necessary. By the way, Morwenna is here, at the funeral."

"Tell her I need her at the surgery," he says curtly.

"I will," she answers, before realizing he's already hung up.

Ruth slips the mobile into her coat pocket, and mutters something about poor manners and supposedly grown-up men, when her gaze falls on Joan's grave, its newly turned soil like a wound on the landscape.

The sharp pain she has come to associate with grief presses against her chest. She misses Joan, and suddenly thinks how easy it has been to slip into the void created by her sister's death; she finds herself worrying about the farm and Martin in equal measures, just as her sister did when she was alive. Maybe that had been Joan's plan all along, leaving her the farm as a way to force her to live beyond the safe and lonely world she had created for herself in London.

Ruth takes a last look her sister's grave and walks down the well-worn foot path to the church. The low murmur of voices drifts from the church hall and she sheds her raincoat before joining the crowd milling about the tables laid out with sandwiches, pastries and tea. She accepts a cup from the young woman manning the tea urn and looks around the hall for John. The crowd clears, and she spots him sitting on a bench, Jenna at his side, coxing him to drink from the cup held in his hands.

"How are you feeling, John?" asks Ruth as she walks up to them. Her medical training kicks into gear, and she does a cursory assessment to make sure he's holding his own- color good, breathing even and slow, pulse steady. "My nephew wishes to see you in his surgery before the end of the day." She turns to Jenna, "Can you take him?"

"Yes, of course." She turns to her father. "Let me find Brent and I'll be back take you." She gives him a weak smile and gently touches his arm before moving away. John doesn't notice, or if he did, does not acknowledge his daughter's attention. Ruth sighs and wonders if John should be started on an antidepressant, and makes a note to speak with Martin about this later today.

Her train of thought is interrupted by someone calling her name. "Ruth? Ruth Ellingham?" She turns to see the vicar, his brown eyes curiously gazing at her.

Ruth is suddenly transported back fifty years, to a lecture hall at Cambridge where a tall, fair headed boy shyly offered to be her laboratory partner. She looks at him and quietly says, "Your Hamish Morgan." She is relieved to have finally remembered him, and his warm smile brings back further memories of walks along the Cam on blustery autumn days and tea shared by the fire.

"I heard that Joan Norton's sister had inherited Havenhurst but didn't make the connection until I saw you here."

"Yes, my sister left me the farm, in hopes of making a farmer out of her city dwelling sister."

"How is that going?" he asks with an amused glint in his eyes.

"Well, I managed to run over a chicken with my car and there is a bumper crop of weeds growing in the garden."

"You haven't changed a bit, Ruth," he says laughing.

"And I'm rather surprised to see you in the confines of Cornwall. If I remember correctly, you had ambitions to climb the ranks and become a bishop."

He shakes his head. "Ah, the exuberance of youth! No, I set up shop in a parish outside of London and married a nice girl from Padstow. After our children fledged from the nest, she wanted to move back here. I've been the vicar in Newquay for the past five years."

"Is your wife here today?" asked Ruth.

He sighs sadly. "She died two years ago, from breast cancer."

"I'm sorry, Hamish."

He clears his throat, "Yes, it was all rather difficult." He glances around the room. "I don't know many of the Port Wenn parishioners. It's only in the last year that I've officiated here, on a rotating basis with other local clergy. Apparently the vicar broke his hip in a tussle with a bridegroom and is still at a nursing home in Truro."

"That's unfortunate," answers Ruth, but inwardly cringes, well aware of the debacle between Port Wenn's vicar and Martin on his ill-fated wedding day.

Joan had called Ruth in a state of despair over their nephew's last minute decision not to marry the school teacher, and she could do little more then make soothing noises from the conference she was attending in Switzerland. Ruth hadn't been surprised by the turn of events, having said many times to Joan that Martin's engagement to the school teacher had sounded rushed, ill thought out and would likely end in tears. It's all for the best, Ruth had told a distraught Joan.

And then she had been baffled when Martin and Louisa tried to make a go at it after the baby was born, being of the opinion that people can only change if they are willing to work at it, and these two had definitely not worked at it. No, better for Martin to pursue his surgical career in London, she thinks, and for Louisa to stay in Port Wenn with the baby.

Hamish is about to ask Ruth if she would like another cup of tea, when they hear a sharp intake of breath followed by an alarmed shriek. They whirl around in time to see Bert, holding a tray of tumblers filled with sherry, skid across the wet and muddy floor. The tray arcs into the air and hovers for a brief moment, before crashing to the floor, the tumblers splintering in hundreds of glittering shards. Ruth watches with horror as Bert falls with a resounding thud and lays still, blood pooling around the broken glass littering the floor.

**Authors Note**

**The words used by the vicar in the burial service are taken from the 1559 Book of Common Prayer:**

"**FORASMUCH as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear brother here departed: we therefore commit his body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ; who shall change our vile body, that it may be like unto his glorious body, according to the mighty working, whereby he is able to subdue all things to himself."**


	22. Chapter 22

**Disclaimer: The story and characters of Doc Martin belong to Buffalo Pictures. This work of fan fiction is for personal amusement only and no infringement of any legal rights is intended.**

The Consultation 

Chapter 22

For a moment no one moves, shocked by the still figure of Bert Large lying on the worn parquet floor. Then someone shouts, "He's hurt. Call a doctor!" Ruth pushes through the crowd pressing around the injured man and finds herself attending to a medical emergency for the second time that day. She crouches by Bert, avoiding the broken shards of glass scattered about the floor, and reaches for his wrist.

Al and Hamish run up to Bert as his eyes flutter open. He says weakly, "What happened?"

"You took a cropper," answers Al. He leans over his dad, his face etched with worry. Bert lifts his head and Ruth sees a deep gash running behind his ear. Blood seeps from it at an alarming rate, and forms a large puddle on the floor, soaking Al's trousers at the knees.

Ruth points to the young woman who was serving the tea earlier. "Go fetch some kind of clean cloth." The urgency in her voice prompts the woman to jump up and scurry off towards the kitchen. "Bert, does anything hurt?" asks Ruth, reaching for the mobile phone in her handbag.

"Just my head." He turns to Al and says, "Help me up, son." Al leans over to help his father, but Ruth shakes her head. "Stay put. My nephew should take a look at you first." She dials the surgery, and hopes that someone will be available to answer her call.

"Dr. Ellingham's surgery," answers Morwenna breathlessly on the third ring. The phone is tucked under her chin while she struggles to remove the large overcoat borrowed for her Aunt Delen's funeral.

"It's Ruth. There's been an accident at the church. Please tell Martin he's needed here."

"Oh no! Is it Cousin John?" she exclaims, walking rapidly towards the closed consulting room door. Her grandfather's cousin is having a difficult time coming to terms with his wife's death and Morwenna worries with how frail he has become in the last few days.

"No, no. It's Bert. He managed to slip and fall while carrying a tray of tumblers. There's a nasty gash on his head that Martin should take a look at it."

Before Morwenna can knock on the Doc's exam room door, it is pulled open by a young man tightly holding onto a woman's hand. Her face is red and blotchy but she smiles regardless as the man gazes at her lovingly. Morwenna steps aside to let them pass and tries to keep from grimacing at the off-putting rash on the woman's face.

Morwenna's gaze shifts to Martin and she frowns at the queer expression on the Doc's face. He watches the couple leave the surgery and she asks, "Doc, are you okay?"

"What is it," he says, turning his attention to the case notes in front of him. Morwenna hastens into the room and waves the phone around in one hand. "It's your Aunt Ruth. She says Bert Large took a spill at the church."

"I suppose she wants me to go there," he says with a sigh.

Morwenna nods. "That's the general idea."

He hesitates for a moment and says, "Reschedule my afternoon appointments. I won't be back until dinner." He grabs the medical case sitting by his desk and fetches his overcoat from the pegs by the kitchen door. A sharp wind blows from the harbor and he leans into it as he walks down the steps to his car.

The drive to the church is a short one, barely ten minutes, through rutted and muddy country roads. Ordinarily, he would have muttered a few choice words about the consequences of the poor road conditions on the undercarriage and finish of his car. But today his mind is otherwise occupied.

After he watched Louisa wheel James down the hill last night, her back rigid and her hair swishing back and forth in anger, he had gone back into the surgery to tidy up the tea things and get ready for bed. He abhorred any changes in his routine, and methodically went about locking doors and switching off the lights, before climbing the stairs to his bedroom. There, he bathed and donned a fresh pair of pyjamas before slipping into bed. The orderly sequence of tasks well done usually soothed him, but last night had been different.

Martin picked up a book on thyroid disorders from the night table, and read one page, and then two but the words held no meaning. Finally, he put the book down, perturbed by his inability to concentrate and sat stiffly, his back against the headboard, book clasped in his hands, eyes staring at but not seeing the white washed wall of his bedroom.

After a long while, he snapped off the lamp next to the bed and punched the pillow in frustration before laying down his head. His eyes burn with fatigue, but he knows sleep will elude him, as it had done these past few nights.

He lets his hand rest on the side of the bed where Louisa should have lain and the expansive emptiness mocked him. He edges away from it to settle on his side, and the moonlight filtering through the window's thick pane bathes him in a stark, cold light. As he closed his eyes against the light, he wondered what had again gone wrong between him and Louisa.

He had followed Ruth's advice, and told Louisa about his plan to see a solicitor about the financial arrangements for James, but in the end, it hadn't mattered. Louisa had been angry, and he was at a loss to explain at which point she had misread his intentions. This has been a recurring theme this past two months- she had rebuffed or misconstrued his advice and help, as well-meaning as it may have been.

It seems he can do nothing to stop Louisa from slipping away from his reach, and he feels a depth of despair he hasn't experienced since the day he collapsed in theater. As tears prick his eyes, he pulls the blankets tighter around his shivering frame and buries his face in the soft fabric of the pillow cover.

Martin pulls into the church car park, and rubs his eyes, weary from another night without sleep. I must getting old, he thinks as he hurries inside the church. When he was operating, he could go a day or two without rest and still have energy to spare.

He sees Bert lying on the floor, a cloth pressed to the side of his head. Ruth crouches next to him while Al and Hamish Morgan stand nearby. They are relieved to see Martin, and Ruth waves for him to hurry over.

Martin hones in on the patient, but not before noting the hastily swept glass and the dark streaks of blood mixed in with the mud tracked in from the churchyard. He clenches the handle of his case a little tighter and skirts the stained floor as Ruth stands to greet him.

"He slipped on a wet patch and went flying. I don't think he passed out, but there is a nasty gash to the side of his head that needs looking after," she says.

"Right," says Martin, as he shines a pocket torch into Bert's eyes. "Any blurred vision, dizziness?"

"No Doc. Feel fine except for my head. Throbs like the dickens. I have to be right as rain tomorrow. The school asked me to fill in for the dinner lady who's sick with that flu going around." He pulls the cloth away from his temple and blood drips from the open wound onto his already stained shirt.

Ruth senses Martin tense up next to her so she turns to look at him. His face is impassive, but sweat beads on his brow and upper lip, and his hands shake almost imperceptibly as he snaps on a pair of gloves. The vegetable soup he had for lunch wants to lurch from his stomach, but he forces it back down with a few hard swallows.

Bert peers at the GP and says, "You don't look so good Doc. Maybe you should have your aunt take a look at you."

"Shut up, Bert," Martin says tersely.

"Martin, he's right. You do look awful," said Ruth, reaching for the disinfectant spray. "Let me take care of this. I think adhesive skin closures will do…"

"Would you both shut up and let me do my job?" Martin bellows.

Silence descends on the room and all eyes turn inquisitively towards Martin.

"Just give me the spray and closures," Martin murmurs and Ruth reluctantly does as he asks.

She glances up at Hamish and shrugs before turning her attention back to Martin. She sees her nephew take a deep breath before gently palpating the wound for any stray shards of glass. Satisfied that there are none, he sprays a generous amount of disinfectant over the wound.

"That stings, Doc," Bert yelps.

Martin ignores him, intent on keeping his hands steady while he applies the skin closures. He tells Bert to come to the surgery for a tetanus booster, and stows the extra dressing supplies in his case.

His hand brushes against the blood soaked cloth and the air is suddenly awash with the metallic scent of blood. This smell distills the essence of the operating theater to its most basic element, an element that his mind and body are rebelling against made evident by the sweat soaking his shirt and the nauseous feeling in the pit of his stomach, which now refuses to be ignored.

Martin rises and wavers for a moment, closing his eyes in an effort to stop the walls of the church hall from closing in around him. Ruth places her hand on his arm to steady him, but he brushes her away.

Without a parting word, he hurries towards the exit. His medical case bangs against his thigh and the cold, damp air greets him as he steps over the church's threshold, but he doesn't feel either. He urgently runs up the path leading to the churchyard and retches in the boxwood hedge.

Ruth stops on the steps leading from the church and sees Martin pull a handkerchief from his trouser pocket. He wipes his mouth as she calls out to him, her voice high and thin with worry. "Martin, wait!" He turns away from her as she nears, but not before she takes note of his pallid countenance underscored by the distress in his eyes. "You're ill. Please let me drive you home."

"Leave me alone," he answers, his voice heavy and brittle with fatigue. He walks towards the car park, and feels his aunt's eyes boring uncomfortably into his back.

It slowly dawns on Ruth that Martin's symptoms have nothing to do with the flu that has been afflicting the residents of Port Wenn. With a sinking heart, she realizes that her nephew's haemophobia has once again reared its ugly head.

**Author's Note**

**This fledging writer is very grateful to robspace54 for his insightful suggestions and thorough edits. All errors are of my own doing. **


	23. Chapter 23

**Disclaimer: The story and characters of Doc Martin belong to Buffalo Pictures. This work of fan fiction is for personal amusement only and no infringement of any legal rights is intended.**

The Consultation

Chapter 23

_I was driving. It was night, and a thick fog covered the moor like a shroud, dancing and swirling in front of the headlights of my car. The fog was so thick, I couldn't see more than a few feet in front of me, but it somehow didn't matter as I knew every dip and turn in the road. _

_My large hands rested lightly on the steering wheel. There was a faint scar running along the side of my thumb where I had cut myself as a child, but they felt strangely unattached to the rest of me. I should have felt the smooth leather of the wheel under my fingers and the damp fog that pressed itself against the windows, but I didn't. This did not alarm me; on the contrary, it was a relief to be in place where I couldn't feel anything at all._

_There was a rise in the road, and the car effortlessly glided to the top. The road flattened to reveal a wide expanse of moor; the fog had thinned to misty ribbons billowing under the wind rising from the sea, and I could see the tors scraggy and misshapen, like specters towering over the landscape. _

_I continued in this manner until a shaped loomed ahead, one that didn't belong to the moor, and it resolved into a car, its once pristine body splattered with rust. I was overcome with unease at the sight of it, and averted my gaze in hopes it would dissipate like the ghostly fog in the wind. But it remained there, silently beckoning me to stop._

_I heeded its call, and stepped out onto the loose gravel covering the road, my feet making no sound as I cautiously made my way towards the wreck of decaying metal. As I got closer, I saw wisps of cloudy mist swirl in and out of the broken windows, like an aging dragon breathing its last breath. Pieces of glass had fallen into the heather that grew by the side of the road and I bent down, entranced by the soft glimmer of their razor sharp edges. _

_I was compelled to touch them, but as my hand hovered over the nearest shard, I sensed danger and quickly pulled away. The glass sliced through my flesh and a flash of red shot in front of my eyes. I felt a quickening of my pulse along with the bitter taste of bile at the back of my throat as my blood spattered onto the clear glass littered at my feet. _

_I jumped up and started to run towards the safety of my car, when a high pitched wail shattered the silence of the moor. I stopped in my tracks and looked around me, recognizing the distressed call of an infant; it seemed to be coming from the derelict car and I rushed back to it, frantically peering through the broken windows. When I didn't see anything, I quickly moved to the back of the car and wrenched open the lid to the boot. The acrid smell of rancid oil assailed me, and as I took a step back, the cries stopped as suddenly as they started._

_A profound sense of foreboding sent a shiver down my spine. I was about to make a run for it, when I heard a soft whimper coming from the far side of the car. A force stronger then my will to run pushed me forward, and I took a step then another until I saw, through the parting mist, a woman lying on the heather, her beautiful face framed by long strands of glossy dark hair. _

_In her arms was nestled a baby, dressed in a christening gown of soft ivory satin delicately trimmed with lace. The pallor of the women's skin and the stillness of the baby's chest spoke to the fear that had been growing inside me, and I stumbled forward to grasp the woman's hand. It was icy cold against my own, and I desperately felt her wrist for a sign of life, but to no avail._

_I made a noise that was half gasp and half wail as I realized there was nothing I could do for them. I clenched my hands in despair, and felt a sharp, intense pain shoot through one of my fisted palms; I opened it and blood poured forth from the ugly gash seared into the delicate flesh of my hand. _

_A shriek ripped through me, deep and unrelenting …._

Martin hears a scream, and sits up in bed, eyes wide open with fear; his chest heaves with each intake of breath and he feels the cold sweat soak through the vest now plastered to his skin. He looks around, and sees the familiar chest of drawers and the travel cot outlined in the half light, and closes his eyes with relief.

"It was just a dream," Martin murmurs as he impatiently frees the tangle of bedclothes twisted around his legs.

He gets up, walks to the casement window and throws it open. The cold autumn night air rushes in and he takes a deep breath in hopes of chasing the image of a lifeless Louisa and James from his overwrought mind.

The sky is streaked with the delicate orange and pinks of early dawn. He realizes he's slept for maybe an hour, the remainder of the night spent tossing and turning, his mind filled with thoughts and images darting and colliding into small bursts of anxiety, brought on by the events of the previous day.

After his panic attack at the sight of Bert Large's laceration, he drove aimlessly until he found himself at head of one of the many walking trails meandering along the Cornwall coast. He left the car along the side of the road and walked for hours, his dress shoes covered with mud and his overcoat soaked from the incessant rain. The fresh air and the brisk walk helped clear his head and but by the time he got back to his car, he was no closer to finding a solution to his problems.

Martin shivers in his damp vest and goes to closes the window but not before surreptitiously looking at his hands to makes sure there is no wound marring their smooth surface. Reassured, he strips off his vest and slips on a robe- no point in going back to bed now. Louisa will be dropping off James in a few hours; she asked him to mind the baby this morning as Eleanor is still in hospital after he performed emergency surgery to save her miserable bowel.

He again looks at his hands, strong but nevertheless able to perform the most delicate task of repairing severed veins and arteries; the hands of a skilled surgeon. But they would be of no use to anyone unless he could get these damn panic attacks under control.

Martin goes to the kitchen and makes a cup of espresso as the first strains of Handel's violin sonata fills the room. He settles down on the sofa, and hopes the music will help shift the pall of anxiety that permeates his days, and now his dreams.

**Author's note**

**Again, I wish thank robspace54 for his encouragement, thoughtful suggestions and through edits. All errors are of my own making. **


	24. Chapter 24

**Disclaimer: The story and characters of Doc Martin belong to Buffalo Pictures. This work of fan fiction is for personal amusement only and no infringement of any legal rights is intended.**

**Many thanks to jd517 for beta reading this chapter; all errors are of my own doing. **

The Consultation

Chapter 24

The police truck drives away in a cloud of dust and turns onto the road to Truro. Martin watches it leave and he feels that his day had gone on as if he never awoke from last night's horrid dream; night had segued into day but the nightmare of James Henry's abduction by the village's psychotic chemist had been very real.

But it was all over. On Penhale's request and despite the pain in his leg, Clive Tishell had driven the police truck from Port Wenn to Pentire Castle. Ruth had with some difficulty coxed an agitated Sally Tishell into its back seat, and Penhale had taken the wheel as Clive clambered in next to him, bellowing that they would keep Martin informed on "his Sally's" progress. Martin had sneered, and was about to yell for him not to bother, when he remembered that Tishell's wife was, unfortunately, still his patient. He shakes his head, once again astonished by the stupefying lack of common sense exhibited by most villagers.

Martin turns his attention to Louisa, who is securing James in the infant seat. She smiles at the baby, but he can see the strain in her eyes as she looks at him and says, "We should go. He'll want a feed and a nappy change any minute now."

Louisa's voice sounds calm to her ears, but it belies her true state of mind. A jumble of emotions runs amok through her, ranging from the abject terror of James's kidnapping to sheer amazement at Martin's words to her at the castle. None of it has sunk in, and Louisa feels somewhat dazed as she gets into the car next to Martin.

"We should go to the surgery so I can thoroughly examine James," he says. Louisa nods, not caring where they went, as long as it is far away from Sally Tishell. She closes her eyes for a moment, and images swarm like a disjointed film playing on the screen of her mind; her mother leaving Port Wenn without a care, Sally Tishell holding their baby hostage, Martin saying he loves her. The last thought causes a sensation of slow warmth to fill her chest and trickle down to her toes. Louisa reaches for Martin's hand, and he holds on to it like a drowning man grasping a life vest for dear life.

The car pulls in next to the surgery as the late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the narrow village streets. Louisa carries a grizzling James Henry up the steps to the front door, and shivers in her thin cardigan as she waits for Martin before stepping inside.

They find the reception empty, except for Morwenna who is anxiously waiting for them. She jumps to her feet, bracelets ajangle at her wrists and feathered earrings swing from her ears . James fixes a wide eyed gaze on the receptionist's colorful accessories, and quiets down.

"Thank goodness the little one is alright! Half the village has been in here asking about him and wondering about…" Martin scowls and Morwenna trails off, thinking it best to keep Mrs. Tishell out of it. "Anyhow, I told everyone who called for an appointment they'd have to go to Wadebridge if they needed to see a doctor."

James loses interest in Morwenna's trinkets and starts to whinge. His father reaches for him and says, "Best if I go and look at him now."

Louisa watches Martin carry the baby into the consulting room. Morwenna picks up her bag and says, "If it's all the same to you, I'll be on my way. Ben's being released from hospital tomorrow and I have to see about setting things up for him to convalesce with Granddad and me."

She pulls on a faux fur neon pink jacket and makes a small moue of distaste before adding, "That overbearing mother of his wants him cared for at the family home in Devon, but he doesn't want to go."

"Sounds complicated. Let me know if there's anything I can do to help," said Louisa, edging towards the consulting room door.

Before Morwenna can thank her, Louisa hurries to Martin's side just as he finishes his examination. "Is he alright?" she asks anxiously.

"He appears to be fine. No bruises or scratches. It's fortunate, considering the unstable state she was in." He can't bring himself to say her name, and he feels another flash of anger towards the woman who put their baby at such risk for bodily harm.

James Henry's tummy grumbles and he now starts to cry in earnest. Louisa picks him and says soothingly, "It's alright, your mummy's here."

"I think he's hungry, Louisa. You can go upstairs, if you'd like" said Martin, stowing his stethoscope in the desk drawer.

James Henry's cries turn to a soft whimper as Louisa walks up the stairs and into the bedroom she shared with Martin after the baby was born. She settles on the bed and James latches on hungrily, his eyes half closed with contentment.

Martin had followed them and now watches from the doorway, wishing that everyone's state of happiness could be reduced to a cuddle and a full belly. But his life is not that simple, and he feels his stomach clench at the decisions he will have to make in the next few days. But with Louisa at his side, he will weather through it all, and the warmth of that thought unwinds something inside him that had lain dormant for far too many years.

He gently strokes the baby's head and leans over to softly kiss Louisa on the cheek. "I'll go make us some supper," he says and she gazes at him thoughtfully as he leaves the room. They have so much to talk about, but she knows that with Martin everything has to come in its own time.

She props James on her shoulder and rubs his back. "Time for a bath and sleep my love," she says, getting up and going into the bathroom in search of a basin and towels. She finds these next to James's bath toys, neatly stowed in a basket along with a bottle of baby shampoo and a few colorful flannels. Martin must have kept these after she left the surgery with James, and she feels tears prick at the back of her eyes. "Your daddy does love you," she says, nuzzling the baby's head in an effort to ward off the tears that are threatening to spill onto her cheeks.

The creaks and groans of the surgery's ancient plumbing tell Martin that Louisa is running a bath for the baby. He looks at the grout crumbling around the sink and thinks it would be a good idea to hire a reliable contractor to fix the worst of it, now that it appears he'll be staying in Port Wenn, at least for the short term.

But Martin doesn't quite know why he's thinking about plumbing and grout when there are more pressing matters to attend to, such as calling Imperial to let him know they will need to look for a new chief of vascular surgery.

Yesterday's panic attack, triggered by Bert Large's bloody laceration, had brought home the painful truth that he wasn't ready to be a surgeon again. Martin looks at his hands, hands that may never wield another scalpel, and he thinks this doesn't matter very much at the moment.

He hears Louisa singing to James with her lilting West Country accent, accompanied by giggles from the baby happily splashing in his bath; a Handel sonata would never sound as lovely to his ears. To think that he almost walked away from all this, threw it all away because he couldn't bring himself to tell Louisa how he felt about her.

Martin opens the fridge and takes out the fish he had bought that morning, which came with a dose of unsolicited advice about the perils of bachelorhood from one of the village's fisherman. A smile flits across his face; no danger of that now, or so he hopes.

He slips off his jacket, drapes it neatly on the back of the nearest chair and goes about preparing the fish for the oven. The filet is small; there won't be enough for two so he takes out a few eggs to make an omelet for himself. He's about to pour the eggs in the pan warming on the cooker when his mobile rings. He wipes his hands on a tea towel and retrieves it from his suit pocket, hoping it won't be a patient with a so-called medical emergency. But no, the screen flashes Ruth's mobile and he quickly answers.

"Martin, I thought you'd want to know that Sally Tishell was admitted to the psychiatric ward at Truro hospital. The consultant believes she'll be fine, once the drugs clear her system. How are the baby and Louisa doing?"

"Fine." He listen's for the sound of her voice, but all is quiet. Louisa must be getting the baby ready for bed. "James doesn't have a scratch on him."

"Luckily, he won't remember a thing," said Ruth, as she hurries out of the hospital and into the gathering dusk. A blue Volvo pulls up to the curb and she waves at the driver before continuing, "I'm leaving now but I left my number with the Clive Tishell, just in case."

"Do you need me to fetch you from Truro?" asks Martin dutifully.

"No, I'm having dinner with an old friend," answered Ruth. She gets into the waiting car and smiles warmly at Hamish Morgan before turning her attention back to Martin. "I'll come by tomorrow, if that's all right."

"That will be fine," Martin answers. They wish each other goodnight, and he shrugs; Ruth's comings and goings are really none of his concern, but for an instant he wonders with whom she might be sharing her dinner tonight.

He checks on the fish and heads upstairs to look in on James and Louisa. As Martin nears the top of the stairs, he hears muffled crying coming from the bedroom. He hurries into the bedroom to see Louisa hunched over James's cot, her slight frame shaking with every sob. Martin strides in, looks into the cot and is relieved to see James safely asleep under his favorite blanket. He hovers uncertainly, but then places his arms around Louisa and gently pulls her to his chest. She turns and leans into him, clutching at his shirt with fisted hands.

"What if something terrible had happened to our baby? I couldn't have lived with myself," she cries, her tears soaking through the thin fabric of his shirt.

"But it didn't, Louisa. He's safe. Here, with us." He tilts her chin with one hand and gently wipes the tears from her cheeks.

She looks at him, the anguish in her eyes making his heart ache. "It's all been too much, Martin. With my mother leaving, and then you as well…"

"Shush. I'm not going to leave you."

She holds his eyes in an unwavering gaze and knows he's telling the truth. Her arms find their way around his neck and she pulls him close. "I love you, Martin Ellingham," she whispers as her lips seek his. They kiss deeply and thoroughly, and he loosens the pins holding up her hair. "You are so beautiful," he murmurs as glossy chestnut strands tumble around her face and shoulders. He gazes at her, transfixed by her loveliness as she nimbly removes his tie and undoes the buttons of his shirt, one by one.

His body throbs with pent-up desire, but he forces his mind to think rationally. "Louisa, are you sure this is a good idea? You are just recently delivered…"

She puts a finger against his lips and shakes her head. "Don't spoil it, Martin."

He decides it's in his best interest to keep quiet, and wordlessly removes his cuff links as she tugs at his shirt and vest. Her hands travel slowly down his bare chest, and a seductive smile hovers on her lips as she starts to unfasten his trousers. A moan escapes from deep within him, and he greedily captures her mouth with his as he pulls with increasing urgency at the zipper of her dress. The unfastened garment slides to her feet, and he relishes the feel of her skin against his, when she suddenly tenses and pulls away.

"Martin, what's that smell?" she asks, looking around the room in alarm.

"I don't smell…" he starts to say when the sharp and acrid smell of something burning fills his nose.

"Bugger! The fish!" Martin exclaims as he runs out of the room , wearing only his pants. Louisa collapses on the bed into a fit of giggles, and covers her mouth to avoid waking the baby.

What a day this has been, she thinks, craning her neck to see if the baby has slept through the commotion. She wraps herself in the duvet, goes to stand by the cot, and tenderly gazes at their sleeping son.

"My life with your daddy will be many things, but it will never be dull," she whispers.

And that will suit her just fine.

_The End_

**Author's Note**

**And so, I have come to the end of my tale. My intention was to write a one chapter story, but with the encouragement of reader reviews and my fellow FF writers, I just kept going. **

**Thanks to both robspace54 and jd517 for reading through my drafts and making thoughtful suggestions along with patiently correcting the sometimes wonky grammar and syntax. It has truly been an honor to learn from these two very talented writers. **


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